


Quiet Sickness

by Elfgrandfather



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Bugs & Insects, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, F/F, Homophobia, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Necrophilia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, Misogyny, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Thriller, everyone turned out gay in this except like jack and buffalo bill rip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-06-10 15:42:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 63,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15294732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/Elfgrandfather
Summary: A childhood marred by the trauma of growing up orphaned and gay in rural West Virginia has had Clarice Starling running from her demons for fifteen years. Her efforts have landed her at the top of her class at the FBI Academy, and her first case has her investigating the elusive Buffalo Bill. She's sent to Baltimore to make use of Hannibal Lecter's expertise - as a psychiatrist and a psychopath - which kickstarts a chain of events that has her stumbling nearer and nearer to the past she's tried so desperately to escape. The actions of her boss, Jack Crawford, and her girlfriend, Ardelia Mapp, can only delay the inevitable.Meanwhile, Hannibal has his own agenda. One he's been waiting a decade to fulfill.





	1. Congee

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure this has been done, but I've wanted to do a sort of hypothetical season 4 fic for a while and I figured I'd have a crack at it. I've deliberately not checked out other takes on this premise, and I've also gone off memory for the plot of Silence of the Lambs to try and make it more interesting/less of a direct adaptation. I wrote most of this while completing my Master's degree, so I didn't have time to rewatch the whole show... if you spot discrepancies that really stick out, let me know!
> 
> I wanted to expand on the themes of misogyny and homophobia present in the Thomas Harris books and the TV show, so please keep that in mind. The tags aren't just for show. Jame Gumb's been changed a fair bit to remove some traits that haven't aged well. I'm not American (or a murderer, or a psychiatrist, or an FBI agent, etc), and though I tried hard to do proper research, I'm still writing this mostly to relax and have fun, so it's not like... Professional Standard. That's how it is on this bitch of an Earth.
> 
> Finally, I'm gay so I made a playlist for this story. [Have a listen.](https://8tracks.com/vladmitry/quiet-sickness-a-hannibal-fanfic-mix)
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at [elfgrandfather.](http://elfgrandfather.tumblr.com) Check out my other long-form Hannibal fic [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959235/chapters/18203212)

The weight of blood soaking into his shirt was familiar, but the air hissing out of the hole in his throat was almost enough to make him lose focus.

 _Almost_.

They’d considered this eventuality, of course. In the three years since their escape, not once had they slipped from their places at the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted. Amusing though this dubious honour was, it put them at constant risk. Every untroubled week, every tranquil month, every year they celebrated Will’s awakening with champagne and a hunt, capture seemed increasingly abstract, a bogeyman hiding in a forgotten closet.

But the closet door could collapse at any moment. So they’d hashed out a contingency plan.

The agreement was reached almost instantly. In truth, it probably didn’t _need_ to be spoken aloud, but open communication had become a golden rule over the first rocky month of their flight. As they adjusted to their new reality, quarrels had often threatened to put a violent, premature end to their relationship. Besides, exchanging verbal vows brought with it comfort, certainty. Commitment.

Will had taken a final bite of their meal – octopus smoked in bone marrow – felt a smile crease the corners of his eyes, and clasped Hannibal’s hand tight.

Hannibal.

His eyes sparked with adrenaline, dark and beautiful and locked on Will’s like they had so often before. Knives – practical, decorative, antique, modern – were plentiful in their home, placed strategically to allow for a swift kill or a shallow, seductive incision, to whet the appetite. It had taken less than a second from Hannibal whipping the Sharpfinger out of its hiding spot to Will’s jugular being pierced.

It should have been instant death.

But despite Will’s best efforts to lean into the blade and embrace the darkness, Hannibal’s hand was thrown off its carefully calculated trajectory when the first bullet shattered his wrist, the second tunnelled into his bicep.

The blade slipped. The wound was far too shallow.

‘No.’

Three SWAT operatives slammed Will’s body on the ground. Endless combat boots trampled the house flat, trod on his hopes. Probing fingers searched his body for weapons, pressed hard against his neck to stem the flow of the short, sharp shock.

‘No!’ Will roared, thrashing like a man possessed.

‘Quit, you sonuvabitch!’ the agent quelling the blood yelled. ‘Can we get an EMT over here?!’

‘You’re not dying before you face a judge, motherfucker,’ another hissed in his ear.

Will snapped toward the voice and, quick as a viper, darted his head toward the agent’s lips, biting down hard and grinding his teeth on the man’s balaclava until he felt flesh tear.

‘Fuck!’ he screeched, punching Will’s temple once, twice, forcing him to let go. ‘Fuck fuck my fucking _mouth_!’

New hands pressed Will’s face into the floorboards as the screaming became distant. His consciousness was made fleeting by the blows and the blood loss, the world dimming in and out of focus to the rhythm of his heartbeat. He fought to stay awake, hoping, _praying_ he’d die before it was too late.

Forced supine, Will could only see a corner of their cottage. Dust particles danced in the sunlight shining from the window above, and he could just make out the titles of the books lining the bottom shelf of the bookcase. Empty of carnage, this single corner was a portal to another, ideal world, where none of this was happening. In this alternate reality, they finished getting ready to cycle into town. They made their way to Monsier Matthieu’s shop for the promised _tête de cuvée_ due today. Monsier Matthieu liked them, always put aside the best bottles and tossed a couple of treats into their orders. This new batch of wine was all he’d spoken about for weeks – ‘a farewell gift for my young friends,’ he’d said in laboured English.

Yes, because they were just about to move. In two days. Tampere, two hours from Helsinki. Their bags were packed, piled up behind the bedroom door. Their trains were booked.

Only two more days.

‘Jesus Christ!’

Retching sounds from the kitchen.

Another voice: ‘Forensics’re gonna have a field day with this fridge.’

Will felt himself being lifted onto a stretcher. At some point, the fingers on his throat had been replaced with a compress, taped tight and haphazard around his neck like a shoddy hangman’s noose, tugging at his skin. The wound didn’t hurt. It was a blessing.

‘Hannibal…’ he murmured, muffled by the oxygen mask being secured to his face. The room, infested with black phantoms bearing assault weapons, blurred into a murky haze.

‘Will.’

Hannibal, cutting through the cacophony all around. It sounded too clear to be real.

‘Forgive me.’

Will’s eyelids drooped.

 

\---

 

Clarice plopped down on the battered couch and hummed along to the morning news jingle. Her stomach was twisting itself into a pretzel. She pulled her skinny knees up against her chest, held the steaming mug of black coffee to her lips, and drank.

Not long now.

_‘Our top story today: after frustrating law enforcement for years, convicted serial killer Hannibal Lecter has been apprehended France with his partner, William Graham. Marisa Hernandez has the details…’_

Any other day, wild horses couldn’t have torn her from the screen, but as it was, the news barely even registered. Would they deliver it even though it was Saturday? They’d send it priority, right? The prospect of waiting until Monday was agony. If only her computer wasn’t busted…

Clarice clenched her toes nervously, scraping the cracked leather of the couch with her short toenails.

‘Mornin’, little bird.’

She glanced at the tall man blundering out of his room. ‘Heya, Joe. Up early.’

‘Yeah, I dunno. Trouble sleeping, I guess.’

Just as she silently prayed he wouldn’t sit down, Joe flopped bonelessly right next to her.

_‘… though he’s expected to pull through, police say they’re waiting for his condition to stabilise before he can be extradited to the United States. The injuries were sustained after Lecter attacked him as the SWAT team forced their way in…’_

‘Hey, I know those guys.’ Joe stopped scratching his stomach to point at the mug shots on the screen. ‘Yeah. Yeah! Hannibal the Cannibal and the Wolfman!’

‘No one else calls him “the Wolfman.” Only ‘round here,’ Clarice said, properly focusing on the television. ‘Never caught on anywhere else. Too tacky.’

‘And “Hannibal the Cannibal” isn’t?’

‘People like a rhyme,’ she shrugged.

‘How long they –‘

‘Three years. Jus’ shy a’ four. Took people a while t’notice. Everybody thought they died.’

Until Bedelia du Maurier’s remains were delivered, tastefully gift-wrapped, to Jack Crawford’s home address.

‘Aw, man, I remember that shit!’ Joe exclaimed. ‘It was crazy! The escape, that last murder – Frankie?’

‘Francis. Dollarhyde.’ Joe’s voice was like nails digging into her brain. Why couldn’t he ever shut up?

‘Dollarhyde, right, right. I was in high school when that went down, man. You know, my brother, he knew a dude who, like, _knew_ the Wolfman. Swear to God.’

Clarice sighed. ‘Everybody in Virginia knows a guy who knows a guy who knows Will Graham.’

 _‘”I know Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham intimately. I know their_ minds _, you see. Make no mistake – these men_ are _disturbed, but they know exactly what they’re doing… classic psychopaths. I hear there’s a bit of a bidding war over who will try them. I’m not a violent man, but personally, I hope Virginia wins and they both get the chair.” Dr Chilton’s new book,_ Exquisite Corpse _, is out now…’_

‘You think they’re queers?’

The word stung like a hornet. Clarice shifted uncomfortably. She sensed her roommate’s hooded eyes on her bare legs, and stretched them out in front of herself to stop her shorts riding further up her thighs. She was near the end of her tenancy. The mug felt suddenly heavy. Could she spill the hot coffee on his lap without making it look too obvious?

‘I dunno,’ she mumbled.

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Joe continued. ‘Lecter’s the type, right? European. And the Wolfman’s…’

‘FBI,’ Clarice said. ‘Was. Obviously.’

Joe laughed. ‘FBI! Don’t you go nuts too, alright?’

‘Have to get in first. Didn’t last time. My Bachelor’s not enough. Gotta get more book learnin’ done.’ She exaggerated her accent, hoping to distract Joe, make him lose interest.

‘Nah, you’ll be fine. UVA’s not that tough. You’ll ace it and then the Fed’s gotta take ya. You’re a hard worker, little bird. Be a shame to pass you over.’

Clarice smiled woodenly, casting a quick eye downwards to make sure her legs were covered up. They were. Joe was just being “friendly,” as usual. And, as usual, his hand was dangerously close to her body.

_‘… the questions remain the same: what drove these men to commit some of the worst crimes in American history? How could Graham – an investigator on Lecter’s case – be seduced into joining him?’_

His fingers inched closer to her thigh, with affected casualness. He never tried to take it any further than an “accidental” brush, but it hadn’t once failed to make her feel like he’d hocked a loogie onto her skin. Ugh. Please. Please please please

The letterbox slapped closed.

Clarice jumped up and ran to the front door. Only one letter, face down on the welcome mat, logo obscured.

This was it. The first step to the FBI, or at least another year with the Charlottesville PD.

She took the envelope, held her breath, and tore it open.

 

\---

 

The newscast switched to the weather report, and the cat stood up in his lap, arcing her back and kneading his leg, claws digging in almost deep enough to hurt. But she never really hurt him. Not her.

‘Tired, Precious?’ he whispered, holding his hand out for the cat to rub her face against his fingers. She purred like a little motor at his touch. ‘Me too. And it’s only mornin’.’

‘Jame!’

He didn’t acknowledge it, smoothing down Precious’ long white fur. The coughing thundered from her room, making his bones ring to a frequency he knew so well.

‘Jame! I’m in _pain_!’

Sighing deeply, he shifted Precious onto the coffee table, and started navigating through the piles of boxes, trash bags, and empty takeout containers crowding the floor.

‘Comin’, mama,’ Jame Gumb called.


	2. Roti Kanai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack picks star FBI trainee Clarice Starling to help catch a profilic serial killer – with a little help from old friends. Hannibal reminisces about happier times with Will.

Clarice tightened the grip on her gun. Her skin was slick with sweat, her neck prickled with anxiety. The room was pitch black. But she’d been taught to see.

Mike was covering her back. Focus on what lay ahead. Round the corner. Sunlight through slits in boarded-up windows. A shadow cutting through – no, that was outside. What mattered was inside. Inside this decrepit trailer, the likes of which she’d become well acquainted during her time with the Charlottesville PD. Acoustics told her the room was empty. Maybe he –

Creak.

She tried to whirl around – but an arm slammed around her waist, lifting her off the ground, jolting her heart into overdrive, not budging as she thrashed like a wildcat until she felt cold metal press against her temple.

‘Bang. Starling’s dead.’

The lights clicked on. The FBI instructor relaxed his hold on her, lowering her until she made contact with the ground before totally letting go. He gestured through the open bathroom door at Mike, who sat sheepish on the rim of the bathtub.

‘Now the Bureau’s got two dead Agents and a maniac still on the loose.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ Clarice nodded, blinking hard at the sudden brightness. ‘Thought Kieslowski had me covered. Let my guard down.’

‘Truth is, you can’t rely on anyone but yourself,’ the instructor commented, leading his pupils out into the expansive Academy grounds. Trainees milled around, paired up and waiting for their turn at the simulation, quietly chatting or stretching in the drab November drizzle. Clarice hadn’t realised how _hot_ it was in there. Goosebumps ran down her arms, her chest.

‘Yes sir. Won’t happen again,’ she said firmly. Behind her, Mike mumbled his assent.

‘I know it won’t. Good progress, guys. Don’t beat yourselves up, alright?’

The instructor clapped a hand on Clarice’s back, sending her stumbling forward just a little. She smiled, tight-lipped, and started towards the cafeteria, fists clenched by her sides. She could hear murmurs of conversation between Mike and his friends, growing fainter with each step. Blaming _her_ for fucking up the test.

Bullshit.

She rewinded the events, hit slow-mo. Bust open the bathroom window. Climb in. Secure the bathroom. Kick the door open.

Secure the main room.

Why hadn’t she secured the main room? Why hadn’t Mike followed her in? Why hadn’t either of them noticed the starter-pack villain hiding in the blind spot?

‘Fuck,’ she whispered, browsing the day’s lunch options for the third time. Foggy with regret and thought, she just picked the dish closest to her, some basic steak and veggies with sauce. Everything was nutritious, here. She wasn’t fussy.

A tall woman walked up next to her, surveying the menu. She clicked her tongue at Clarice’s plate.

‘Wouldn’t get that, if I were you. Heard it’s all gristle.’

Clarice grinned. ‘S’what they say ‘bout me, too, but y’ain’t complained yet.’

Ardelia smiled, setting the tuna salad down on her tray. They shuffled along to the end of the line.

‘I can’t believe I had to talk to you before you noticed me.’ The thick, black coils of her hair were pulled into a ponytail low on her skull, which bounced as she shook her head in mock-disappointment.  When her curls were loose, they poofed out around her heart-shaped face, highlighted the smoothness of her dark brown skin, how it shone with health. And her smile, her smile was wide and contagious and she was beautiful.

Clarice looked at her own milky, skinny wrists, dusted with barely-there ginger hair, and set her tray down for the cashier to add up her meal.

‘Sorry. Messed up a practical and it’s got me feelin’ some kinda way.’ She pointed out Ardelia’s meal. ‘Hers, too.’

After she paid, the women found a prime piece of cafeteria real estate and sat down to eat next to the window overlooking the grounds. In the distance, their classmates were waiting their turn outside the trailer.

‘You bombed a practical,’ said Ardelia. ‘ _Clarice Starling_ bombed a practical.’

‘Trouble chases sinners.’ Clarice cut into her steak. It was tough and sinewy. She took a bite.

‘Yeah, but not _Starlings._ You get paired up with Kieslowski again?’

‘I can’t blame him. Not totally. I was feelin’ kinda – fuzzy, kinda weird, and next thing I know, bang.’ Clarice pointed at the side of her head and made the gesture of a pistol firing, jerking her head to the side for extra realism. Ardelia frowned.

‘But you’re okay now?’

‘Sure. You know how I get in the dark. When folks grab me. Still tryin’a… train it out.’

‘We could work on it together,’ Ardelia said. Under the table, Ardelia’s foot rubbed against the side of Clarice’s leg. ‘If it’s for the good of the Bureau, I can wrestle in the dark with you.’

Clarice grinned.

She liked Ardelia.

She liked Ardelia a lot.

‘You thinkin’ regulation tactics, Agent Mapp, or somethin’ new altogether?’

‘Hmm… I’ve got a couple tricks up my sleeve that you won’t find in an FBI guidebook.’

Clarice shoved a forkful of steamed vegetables into her mouth and crossed her legs at the ankle, coyly putting them out of Ardelia’s reach. ‘Sounds like a fine learnin’ opportunity. I think we oughta pursue your plan at our earliest convenience.’

‘I think you’re right, Agent Starling.’ Ardelia winked, and it made Clarice feel like a kid again.

Up till recently, she thought she’d been through enough to last a lifetime, and she definitely thought she knew what freedom was. Freedom was leaving West Virginia the day after she graduated high school. Freedom was grabbing her roommate’s clippers and shearing straight through her shoulder-length hair. Freedom was working shit hours for shit pay so she could afford rent and train mind and body every day after day.

But now, she knew that hadn’t been life. _Real_ life. Not like life at the Academy. Life filled with violence and guts and evil minds. Life filled with recognition and success and admiration. Life filled with Ardelia.

It made everything else – all the tears, and the blood, and the years of grinning and bearing it – it made it all seem like a practice run. A fading nightmare.

Clarice put her fork down and gazed at the woman across the table. In just a few weeks, they’d be official employees at the goddamn Federal Bureau of Investigation. It felt promising.

It felt real.

‘Starling?’

Clarice looked up at the stocky figure of her instructor. He plucked the cap off his head and rubbed the sweat from his brow.

‘Crawford wants you.’

 

\---

 

She knew Jack Crawford, as much as anyone did. He’d taught a few classes, congratulated her on her results, greeted her in the hallway. And before that, long before that, she remembered his photograph in the news, the interviews, the crisp white bandage around his neck. The news of his wife’s passing.

She knew he was harsh, but fair, and usually friendly.

Still, the closer she got to Jack’s floor, the more anxious she grew. On any other day, she would have been curious, excited, confident. But after the botched practical, she was keenly aware of the her rough accent, of the smell of sweat emanating from the men around her, of the way their eyes scanned her short frame for the slightest hint of a curve under the loose-fitting regulation uniform of slacks and a polo shirt.

The floor secretary smiled at her when she walked out of the elevator, seemingly oblivious to her nerves.

‘Starling? Go right in, Mr Crawford’s expecting you.’

Pushing her concerns to the back of her mind, Clarice strode up to the door and knocked before going through.

Jack Crawford stood when she entered. The office was about what she’d expected: a severe, neat little room that looked like it hadn’t been redecorated since Hoover, but Jack’s presence made the place seem important, even stylish. This did nothing to detract from the tableau plastered across the right wall; a map of the tri-state area surrounded by seven women’s portraits, each connected to a different part of the Tennessee River with lengths of red wool. Black wool linked them to where they were last seen, a scattershot of locations with no seeming rhyme or reason. Clarice’s attention was called back to Jack when he extended his hand.

‘Agent Starling. Good to see you. Thanks for coming so fast.’

They shook, and Clarice matched the strength of his grip.

‘Thank you, Mr Crawford,’ she said, sitting across from him. As Jack took his seat, her eyes kept darting to the map. He couldn’t have called her to work on _this_ , could he? When she was still a student? Her foreboding turned to cautious trepidation, curbed somewhat by his question:

‘How’d your practical go?’

‘Alright,’ Clarice sighed. ‘Not great. Got shot in the head by Mr Gilbert.’ Just mentioning the test brought back the feeling of her instructor’s arm around her torso, pressing like a boa constrictor, but she ignored it, shifting her stance to dissipate the sensation.

‘I’m surprised to hear that. You’re one of our brightest.’

‘Thank you, sir. ‘ppreciate it.’

‘I mean it. You’ve made top five in all your classes, you’ve got a strong sense of leadership and initiative, you’ve shown particular excellence in profiling and psychology… it’s very impressive. Especially since you didn’t get the easy start most of your classmates did. At least… that’s what I’ve been told.’

‘It’s relative,’ Clarice replied carefully. Was this a test? Jack watched her with a slight smile. ‘I got to go to school, I never went to bed hungry, I had time to mess around an’ be a kid. I’ve worked hard, but so’s everybody here. Compared to the ladies and gents we deal with, I’ve had a swell ride.’

‘Very diplomatic.’

Jack swivelled his desk chair to the side and pointed at the map with his pen.

‘You recognise this?’

‘Yes sir,’ Clarice nodded. ‘Buffalo Bill corpse retrieval.’

‘That’s right. You’re familiar with the case?’

‘Jus’ what’s been shared publicly, but I try t’keep up.’

Jack didn’t need to know she’d spent hours poring over the photos leaked to the press. They were grainy, almost impossibly low-quality, but the mutilations were still plain to see, and, in any case, someone had helpfully circled the most egregious wounds with red lines. Seven women’s corpses, all of similar height and weight, rendered virtually indistinguishable from weeks decomposing in running water. Their pale, grey skin was riddled with enormous holes, identifiable as deliberate skinning widened by the elements: the missing patches were too angular, too unnatural to have been removed by hungry animals or collisions with underwater rocks. The cadaver fished out of the water just an hour from her hometown of Fishers Crossing had been scalped, though the picture had been too blurry to make out much detail.

Clarice had seen worse. Over years working in the police and weeks of intensive lessons at the FBI’s Body Farm, she’d been in the _presence_ of worse, and she’d taken it in stride.

But something about those small, low-res photos had left an imprint of profound sadness in her.

Jack didn’t need to know that.

‘I figured you’d know about it.’ Jack retrieved a file from his outbox pile and slid it across the table. ‘I’d like you to consult on the case. If you’re interested.’

‘Yessir,’ Clarice said automatically, reaching for the folder. She let her hand rest on the cover, and deliberately tempered her initial excitement. ‘I mean… I’m grateful for the opportunity, but… well, with all due respect, sir – I don’t know that I have the experience needed just yet. I’m still a rookie.’

Jack regarded her thoughtfully. Clarice slowly pulled the file closer, but still didn’t open it. Finally:

‘You’ve got all the theory you need for this, Starling.’ His steady gaze met hers and she detected a surprising hint of discomfort. ‘Your academic record is exemplary. But more than that, I need you while you’re still a… semi-outsider. We’ve followed the leads and hit the wall at the end of all of them. Our best bet is to confer with an inmate who’ll give us an insight into Buffalo Bill’s mind – and this inmate? He’s tricky, he’s bored, and he’s resentful. We need a specific sort of agent to handle him. Someone who isn’t just smart and capable, but… empathetic. Fresh.’

He breathed heavily out of his nose in something suspiciously like a sigh.

‘Someone who won’t take shit, but who’ll remind him of…’ Jack paused. ‘Someone who he’ll like.’

‘And y’think that’s me?’

‘I do.’

Clarice looked at her hand, on the cover of the folder.

Her name, on such a big case.

Her skills, recognised before graduation.

_Her_ , finding the man responsible for slaying these young women.

She nodded, determined. ‘Thanks, sir. I’d be honoured.’

With that, she opened the file.

These pictures were much clearer. Close-ups of the victims’ bodies, laid out on the forensic department’s metal tables, cleaned of river debris. The discoloured skin of the scalped cadaver found near Fishers Crossing blended near seamlessly with her off-white skull.

Somehow, the explicit photographs affected Clarice far less than the grainy candids had.

‘Which inmate’ll I be talkin’ to?’ Clarice asked, skimming the report.

The answer came a second too late, betrayed her boss’ apprehension. She looked up at him just as he spoke:

‘Hannibal Lecter.’

That gave her pause.

In casual conversation, she’d readily admit the Lecter case was one of her favourites, and her declaration was likely to be met with enthusiastic agreement from anyone with the slightest interest in true crime. But it held special meaning to her. In an odd way, its milestones and hers matched. To the day, Lecter and Graham’s escape coincided with her own flight from home, their capture with her entry into the University of Virginia, their trials and verdicts with her first and second graduations. She’d almost been surprised when she moved to the Academy and nothing new transpired.

The prospect of consulting one half of the duo as part of an assignment was a little surreal.

‘Hannibal Lecter.’ She kept her voice steady, void of feeling. ‘He’s still at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, yes?’

‘That’s right.’ Jack folded his hands together and leaned forward. ‘I don’t like involving him. I’m sure you know we have… _history._ ’

Clarice’s eyes automatically flicked to the scar on his throat, which barely peeked out from under his shirt-collar, still quite visible even faded with age. It couldn’t be easy seeing that crack in his judgement every time he looked in a mirror.

‘I’m aware,’ she replied tactfully.

Jack sighed. ‘And by “we,” I’m including Will. Will Graham. Hannibal Lecter _will_ bring up his… partner. Maybe try to make you feel sorry for him. Don’t be mollified. Those two will never see each other again. Even if he offers information in exchange for a visitation, a photograph, a news clipping, a note written on a damn post-it note – don’t consider it for a second.’

‘Stands to reason.’

‘He’s a manipulator, Starling. He plays games. But he’s our best shot at getting out of this dead end. He knows how we think, and he knows how _they_ think, better than anyone else. I want you inside Lecter’s mind, teasing out the intel, but always with one foot on the ground. That’s rule number two. Know your boundaries and don’t cross them.’ Sadness flashed across his features, quickly buried. ‘We’ve seen what happens if you do.’

‘I’ve always got both feet firmly planted, Mr Crawford,’ Clarice said confidently. ‘Wouldn’t’a got this far otherwise.’

‘That’s what I like to hear. Now. Consulting with Dr Lecter –‘ Clarice’s ears perked up at the respectful title, quietly filing it away. ‘– isn’t new. He was a wealth of information before we figured out who he really was. And when we tried to get his help with the Dollarhyde case, well. Dollarhyde _was_ neutralised. Just not how we’d hoped.’

He raised his eyebrows and Clarice smiled. A laugh would have been excessive.

‘So you’ll forgive us for taking some extra precautions,’ Jack continued. ‘You’ll speak with Dr Frederick Chilton tomorrow afternoon. He’ll fill you in on how to best deal with Lecter.’

Clarice’s displeasure must have shown on her face, because Jack chuckled.

‘He’s not all bad once you get to know him, but he does have an agenda and he insisted on pitching in.’

‘Writing a new book?’

‘Highly possible,’ Jack replied, amused. ‘Phase out the ranting and take what you can. You’re scheduled to leave for Baltimore at seven on Monday. You’ll get a phone with my number in it. Call if you need to.’

Clarice closed the folder and stood up, extending her hand with a quirk of her lips. ‘You scheduled my ride before I’d even said yes, Mr Crawford?’

Jack smiled, and his warm hand almost totally enveloped Clarice’s for a characteristically powerful shake.

‘I’m an optimist,’ he said. ‘I’ll have more details sent to your email. Goodbye, Agent Starling.’

‘Thank you, sir. Bye.’

The excitement of the situation didn’t sink in until Clarice was back in the elevator, mercifully alone. The hand clutching the Buffalo Bill folder shook lightly, and she had to fight hard to stop herself from grinning like a loon all the way back to her dorm. Her father would have been proud. So proud.

_So_ proud.

And even Uncle Gene would –

Well. Anyway.

In the room she shared with Ardelia, Clarice pulled up a recent clip of Chilton. Extensive surgery had somewhat mitigated the horrific damage he’d suffered, but transplants and prosthetics could only go so far. The former doctor cut a pathetic figure, his shiny skin covered in a net of bumpy scars, his rigid face more plastic than flesh.

_‘Personally… I hope they both get the chair.’_

She turned her phone off and lay back on her bed, waiting for Ardelia to finish her classes. She couldn’t really begrudge him his feelings. And his books weren’t terrible, for what they were. Jack was right. Chilton wouldn’t be so bad, once she got to know him.

 

\---

 

The tea was cooling quickly. She’d sipped her first cup with genuine enthusiasm, but now Chilton’s hired help hovered somewhere behind her, waiting to top her up whether she wanted it or not. Best to leave the drink half-drunk.

Chilton steered himself to the Finnish designer bookcase behind his desk and selected a tome of his collected works on Lecter and Graham, a three-volume set prominently displayed on a shelf of its own. Parking his high-tech, almost space-age wheelchair in front of Clarice, he turned the book around to reveal the photograph on the back.

‘That was me,’ he declared, pressing the book into Clarice’s hands. It was _Exquisite Corpse: Dinner at Hannibal’s_ , the follow-up to _Blood and Chocolate_ , and arguably the weakest entry in the trilogy, written to cash in on the capture and composed of half-true anecdotes and culinary analysis.

‘It’s still you, Dr Chilton,’ she said, meeting his gaze. The fake eye was almost indistinguishable from the real one. It was of the highest quality, like everything Chilton owned. Post-Lecter life had treated him well.

He snorted. ‘Thank you, Ms Starling. Modern medicine truly is a marvel. We’re in the triple digits for the number of surgeries needed to fix,’ he circled his face with his hand, ‘ _this._ ’

‘As you say, Doctor, thank God for modern medicine.’

‘Quite.’

In the cover photo, Chilton posed at his desk, dignified. He had opted for a photograph taken before Hannibal entered his life. Though there were lots of pictures of a younger Chilton scattered around the office, there were no photos of him as he looked now, with his fake hide and his fake hair and his fake eye. For a man who took such care with his appearance, reminders of his present condition had to sting, maybe even worse than the actual physical pain.

‘Don’t speak to him.’

Clarice blinked, looking up at him. ‘Pardon?’

‘That’s my advice. Don’t speak to him.’

His diction was remarkably clear. Probably the fruit of extensive, expensive language therapy. With a flick of a button, Chilton’s chair backed up to better allow him to evaluate his visitor.

‘Lecter won’t help you. You’ll think you’re on a level playing field, but he’ll sneak up behind you and sink his teeth into your neck. It’s a game to him, Ms Starling. Nothing more.’

He’d dropped the ‘Agent’ again. Clarice set the book on top of the coffee table, next to the plate of shortbread fingers, and smiled.

‘‘ppreciate your concern, Dr Chilton, but circumstances’re different from when you dealt with _Doctor_ Lecter.’ Clarice noted with satisfaction that Chilton bristled at her use of Hannibal’s proper title. ‘The law’s got a firm upper hand this time. No tricks. We’re merely askin’ for his advice on a case he’s got no stakes in.’

‘He _makes_ stakes, _Ms_ Starling,’ Chilton retorted. ‘Hannibal Lecter’s is a mind that requires constant stimulation. I talk about this at length in _Blood and Chocolate_ and _Friends for Dinner._ He’s been locked up in dear old Baltimore State for the better part of a decade. Do you think he won’t delight in plucking your feathers and watching you squirm?’

Clarice’s smile tightened. ‘He may well try, sir. I can’t rightly say. But at the end a’the day, I’ll be goin’ home and he’ll be in the basement of a mental institution. I can squirm in my bed and he can use my plumage to fix himself a pillow for his big ol’ head, if it makes him feel better.’

Neither spoke. Clarice took a sip of tepid tea. Chilton dunked a piece of shortbread in his cup, popped it in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully.

‘Yes,’ he said, finally. ‘That’s not a bad attitude to have. If you’re determined to consult him, keep it to the facts. Don’t try to appeal to his emotions. He has none.’

‘That’s quite an assertion,’ Clarice remarked.

‘It’s the truth. Don’t be fooled by the…’ Chilton waved his stronger hand, and if he could, he would have sneered. ‘… _sentimentality_ portrayed by the media. That ‘murder husbands’ nonsense. If Dr Lecter and Mr Graham’s union is at all like a marriage, it is one of convenience.’

‘You sound very sure.’

Chilton paused. Clarice felt him scanning her, taking in her youth, her lack of makeup, her masculine attire. His good eye, the only truly expressive part of his body, reflected cold bemusement.

‘I mean, Dr Chilton, that you yourself discuss their relationship in unambiguously romantic terms. I recall a comparison to Leopold and Loeb in _Exquisite Corpse_ , and more’n one ref’rence to Greek myth.’

Chilton’s face twitched with surprise.

‘So you’ve read it. I thought I’d somewhat veiled my allusions, but you’re perceptive. Are you fond of the Greeks, Ms Starling? Sappho, perhaps?’

The attendant left his post behind Clarice to refill Chilton’s cup and carefully feed him the first few sips. His damaged muscles made lifting a full mug one-handed almost impossible.

‘I’m not much for poetry m’self, sorry to say. Loved the stories, though. Had a book on ‘em as a child. My favorite was Prometheus. Havin’ his guts ripped out ‘n eaten every day for all eternity, ‘cause he brought fire down to enlighten us mortals. Think it was worth it?’

The manservant refilled Clarice’s cup now, and presented the plate of biscuits to her, smoothly replacing them near his boss’ chair when she shook her head.

‘You’re right to reject them,’ Chilton said, looking at the shortbread. ‘They’re vile. But missing most of one’s intestinal tract severely limits one’s dietary options.’

Chilton reached for another biscuit, picked it up, and breathed in sharply through clenched teeth as a spasm wracked his arm, making him lose his grip. The shortbread slipped and fell onto the wooden floorboards, landing with a pathetic crunch. The attendant stepped forward to check on him, but Chilton stopped him with a brisk shake of his head.

‘They took everything.’

The single, short sentence was murmured so quietly Clarice almost missed it. Chilton drove his chair back behind his desk with practiced ease, clenching and releasing his hand in an effort to relieve the pain. Once he had it under control, he directed his attention back to Clarice.

‘I did bring up Leopold and Loeb. And I made the same argument then that I’m going to make now. Both are cases of sociopaths turned gallant anti-heroes by a public eager for titillation. Both good pairs of actors, one wearing the mask of Comedy and one of Tragedy. But no matter how perfect the performance, the reality…’

He let his words trail off, staring at his lap. Clarice’s phone rumbled in her pocket, signalling the end of their meeting. She set her cup down on the table and stood up.

‘Reality’s subjective. It’s gettin’ late, sir. I wouldn’t want t’inconvenience you any further.’

Closing the distance between them in a few quick steps, she laid the copy of _Exquisite Corpse_ on the polished top of Chilton’s desk, sliding it towards its author.

‘I’ve read all of ‘em. Thanks for your time. I’ll tell Mr Crawford you’ve been a real help.’

As she stepped back to leave, Chilton drove himself over to the bay window on the far wall. In his current position, with the strong light of day illuminating him, Clarice could only see the vague outline of his chin and wig, partially hidden by the headrest of his chair.

‘If, during your investigation, you find out anything relevant to my work, I expect exclusivity. There’s no reason my Lecter series has to be limited to a trilogy.’ His voice was back to its usual cattiness, marred only by the slight lisp induced by his stiff features. ‘Take care, Agent Starling.’

Clarice watched the glow of the sun reflecting off the glossy surfaces of the office, the shiny metal of the wheelchair, his skin. She nodded.

‘I will. Goodbye, Dr Chilton.’

He didn’t look at her as she left his home.

 

\---

 

Soft charcoal glided smoothly over peach-fuzz paper, building strokes on strokes to shade a stone street winding up a steep hill. Modern Spanish architecture stood side by side with geometric mosaics, the Arabic inscriptions on the walls long erased by sun and wind and irate Catholicism, leaving only a stylised carving of a pomegranate over an archway.

Granada. Five months and fourteen days after their escape.

Hannibal considered the proportions of a window near the edge of his page, set down his piece of charcoal, and ripped a generous chunk of bread off the small bun on the corner of the table. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger until it formed a compact nib, and gently erased the imperfect part of the sketch.

The door clicked open. Hannibal didn’t need to look up to know who it was. His footsteps were unmistakable – and other nurses rarely tended to him anymore.

‘Hello, Barney,’ he said, setting his tools aside.

‘Afternoon, Dr Lecter.’

The tall man walked up to the glass partition separating Hannibal from the outside world. He was soft-spoken, polite, and kinder than the rest of the staff at the Institute. Hannibal rather liked him.

‘A little early for my sedative cocktail.’ Hannibal rose. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

‘You’ve got a visitor tomorrow. FBI.’

Hannibal cocked his head to the side, idly cracking his tired hands. ‘Again? I believed they’d given up on their analyses.’

‘It’s something new, this time. Buffalo Bill.’

He’d read about the case in the news, over a typically paltry TV-dinner-style meal.

‘Ah. A killer for a killer. Gaze into the abyss and it gazes back. I believed they’d also given up on that.’

‘Yeah, I told them not to get their hopes up, but I don’t make the rules.’ Barney shrugged apologetically. He was young, and his uniform seemed to get tighter around his expanding, muscular frame every day. This power wasn’t cosmetic. Before he was placed in solitary, Hannibal had frequently watched Barney ripple with strength when subduing an inmate, cords of muscle almost bursting out of his skin. How many roasts could he carve out of a body like that?

‘I appreciate your effort. Only one agent is coming?’

‘Yeah. Name’s Clarice Starling. Sounded pretty nervous on the phone.’ Barney smiled. ‘Guess they’re having to dip into the greenhorns to find someone you don’t hate.’

Hannibal returned the smile, interrupting thoughts of which sauce would best pair with Barney’s flesh to consider the dozens of people the FBI had plagued him with over the years.

‘Very good of them. Perhaps this thirtieth agent will be the one to crack me.’

‘Hey, if at first you don’t succeed…’ Barney laughed, stepping closer to the partition to peer at Hannibal’s latest picture. ‘That somewhere you’ve been?’

Carefully, Hannibal picked up the piece and lifted it in front of his body, facing outward.

‘The south of Spain. One of the first places Will and I lived in for longer than a few weeks. This was the view from the place we frequented for afternoon coffee, and the occasional churro.’

‘Real nice,’ the orderly murmured. His eyes scanned the page intently, then swept around Hannibal’s small cell. ‘You want the others put in storage?’

Hannibal turned the drawing toward himself, and delicately spread it back on the table before making his way over to the metal drawer at one end of the glass wall. Barney walked along with him.

‘That won’t be necessary, thank you. Agent Starling’s job isn’t to assess my mental health. Her opinion is of no consequence.’

Barney opened the drawer, placed small Styrofoam cups of water and pills on the tray, and passed them through. Hannibal picked up the pills, tossing them back with ease, gulped down the water, then opened his mouth wide and stuck out his tongue, lifting it to show the underside was clear too.

When Barney gave a thumbs-up. Hannibal nodded his thanks and went to his bed, sitting down on the coarse covers.

‘Did your family enjoy your portrait?’

Barney’s bright face clouded over. ‘Management didn’t let me keep it. Said they wanna study it first, then “we’ll see.” I’m not holding my breath. Sorry, Dr Lecter. I thought it was great.’

‘Don’t apologise for what isn’t your fault. I’ll draw another one. They seem to tire and relent when I produce several copies.’

‘Thanks, but don’t bother yourself on my account. It was worth a try.’ Barney moved to the door leading to the rest of the facility and looked back. ‘Lights out in five. G’night.’

‘Goodnight, Barney.’

The door closed and clicked shut. Hannibal slid his cheap canvas shoes off and lay down on the thin mattress, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders and curling up on his side toward the wall in a position he knew put his upper body in the security camera’s blind spot. With practiced immobility, he pushed a succession of softened, grainy pills out from their hiding place between his bottom lip and gum, and placed them in the small square of toilet paper he kept under his pillow for times like these.

It wasn’t that Barney was inattentive. Hannibal rarely pulled this sort of stunt and their cordial relationship had led the orderly to let his guard slip a little too much. In truth, sleep aids were not always an unwelcome way to end the day, but Hannibal wanted his mind clear come morning.

It had been a little over seven years since their capture. Jack Crawford would still be head of the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Formidable though he was, Jack’s capacity for subtlety left much to be desired, and the last-ditch effort of sending over a rookie had to be a sign of desperation. Otherwise, he’d have come in person, maybe made some noise, imposed some sort of punitive measure when Hannibal didn’t cooperate. But Jack was staying in Quantico.

Which meant that the FBI didn’t know how much Hannibal knew.

The lights shut off. Hannibal turned onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling, fading in from black as his vision adjusted to the gloom.

He had felt a frisson of recognition on reading the first reports of Buffalo Bill’s crimes. Every new body affirmed his suspicion. The neurosis, the execution, the location. All he needed were the supplementary details of the case to confirm his theory, and those were to be conveniently hand-delivered on the morrow by Jack’s personal Hermes.

A smile grew on Hannibal’s lips. If nothing else, the meeting promised to be entertaining. A change from the constant cycle of reading, drawing, seeking any opportunity to escape, all centred around a clock on the wall that might not even show the real time – there were no windows, no ways to tell – bracketed by psychotropic haze.

Hannibal made himself as comfortable as possible and consciously controlled his breathing until his eyelids started to droop. Unhindered by medication, he’d most likely be able to drift off seamlessly into a lucid dream

                                  far

                                         far

                                                from Baltimore.

                                                                                          Back in Europe

                                                                                                      with

 

\---

 

Will nudged the kitchen door open, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Hannibal shot a quick glance at his dishevelled lover and turned back to scrambling eggs with a small, genuine smile.

‘Good morning, Will.’

‘Morning.’

Hannibal heard Will’s bones crackle as he stretched the sleep out of his body. Music to his ears.

‘I made coffee.’

‘Thanks.’

Will padded to the percolator to pour himself a cup, lightly dragging his fingertips over the small of the other’s back as he went, five warm dots pressing through Hannibal’s clothes. The eggs bubbled in the pan, solidifying fast. Hannibal tossed a handful of spices into the mix and stirred it, eyeing the sunny, bustling plaza below. Days started late in Andalusia, but no one could resist the allure of a morning like this. Will took a large gulp of coffee.

‘That hits the spot,’ he murmured. He took another sip and made a low sound of pleasure at the back of his throat. ‘I’ll be, uh, human in about ten minutes. When did you get up? I think I remember you leaving when it was still dark.’

‘Had to take care of a few things. Talk to Chiyoh. When the transfer clears, we’ll be set until Bruges.’

‘Ah.’ Will knew they were on the run, of course, but it was hard to get used to the idea while living in the lap of luxury, comfortably taking each day as it came. It felt more like a weird honeymoon than an international manhunt.

‘She sends her regards.’

‘Starting to approve of me?’

‘She’s warming to you.’

‘Tell her I return the feeling. Which is pretty generous, if you think about it, what with her pushing me off a train.’ Will walked a little closer. His sleepy natural scent made the hair on Hannibal’s arms stand up. ‘What are you making?’

‘I stopped by the market on my way back. Nothing exciting, but everything’s fresh. I’m afraid we’ll have to make do with modest fare until I find a good provider. Can you pass me the caviar, please?’

‘Do you hear yourself sometimes?’ Will chuckled, opening the sizeable fridge in the corner of their bright, marbled kitchen. The cool air was a relief in the Spanish summer heat, enough to draw out a contented sigh, but this simple pleasure was soon spoiled by the eyes staring back at him.

The severed head of the young man they’d killed the previous evening sat on the shelf next to the eggs, neatly plastic-wrapped and propped in a bowl to catch any dregs of blood from the hole where his neck used to be. He’d spit drunken venom at Will and Hannibal, _mar_ _ícones_ this, _mariposas_ that, and a pleasant night walk had taken an unplanned turn. This was why Will had overslept – discreetly disposing of the butchered carcass had taken longer than planned in this new city, and by the time he and Hannibal were done celebrating the kill in their marital bed, he was almost deliriously tired.

So much so that he’d missed Hannibal sneaking this little trophy back in his Jean Paul Gaultier duffle bag. _Somehow_.

Will grabbed the jar of caviar and shut the door.

‘Caviar was not always associated with the rich,’ Hannibal commented, moving the pan off the hob. ‘In nineteenth-century America, it was freely given away in saloons to encourage thirst among the patrons.’

‘Well, here ya go, pard’ner,’ Will said, sliding the jar over the countertop for Hannibal to catch. ‘Why’s our guest still with us?’

‘As we were leaving, I noticed Paolo’s cheeks were beautifully fleshy and his tongue far healthier than the norm. Evidently a man who cared about oral hygiene. Seemed a waste not to take advantage.’ He spread a layer of creamy butter over each slice of toasted bread before scooping generous servings of eggs on top. With a small spoon, he nestled caviar beads in the eggs, as though placing them in a nest, then added the final touches of smoked salt, rosemary, and edible flowers.

‘I thought we had enough for a couple of weeks, at least.’ Will’s tone was bemused more than anything else. Between Paolo’s offal and meat, their fridge and freezer were well-stocked. But Hannibal tutted.

‘One doesn’t pass up the opportunity for braised cheeks and homemade tongue pastrami. You’ll agree with me tonight.’ Hannibal carried the plates to the bar-style counter and smirked. ‘Dinner will be to die for.’

Will rolled his eyes and wandered over to the table. He dithered behind Hannibal for just a moment, enough for Hannibal’s muscles to contract in ever-present survival instinct – they’d only been together a few months, was it a ruse? Another FBI trick? – but before he could ask or act, Will slung an arm around his chest and pressed a kiss to his crown, releasing him after an affectionate squeeze. The red flags went back down. The warmth of the kiss seemed to spread downwards, into Hannibal’s brain, down every nerve.

Will sat at the counter and took a generous first bite.

‘Thank you,’ he said, mid-chew. ‘It’s wonderful.’

Hannibal smiled. A small, genuine smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not fluent in Spanish and looking up homophobic slang in that language doesn't tell me whether a particular insult is specific to Latin America or not, so do tell me if European Spanish doesn't use 'mariposa' in this way.


	3. Manggis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice meets Hannibal for the first time, which goes about as well as could be expected.

Clarice spat the blue Listerine froth down the drain, and stretched her mouth into a wide, toothy grin, angling her face this way and that while she finger-combed a dollop of styling product through her short auburn hair.

On any other day, she’d be proud of what she saw in the mirror. The suit, which she’d picked up second-hand and painstakingly refurbished for the first of her many FBI interviews, made her look professional and handsome, but it was roomy enough to hide her wiry strength and the tell-tale bulge of a shoulder holster. Despite her nerves, she’d slept well, and her skin was clear and fresh. Her resting face clearly broadcast ‘don’t even try’ to anyone who looked her way.

Right now, these things felt like problems.

She peered at herself intently. She’d always looked younger than her age. Did she come off as too inexperienced? Too aggressive? Lecter billed himself as high-class, almost archetypally old country. Would he take her seriously if she looked, well… _butch_?

‘Reese?’ came a sleepy voice from the next room.

‘Come in,’ Clarice called, gaze fixed forward. She saw Ardelia crack open the door, flinch at the bright halogen lights, look in the mirror through squinting eyes, which widened when she registered Clarice’s appearance.

‘Are you wearing makeup?’

‘A lil’ bit,’ said Clarice, blushing. A hint of eyeshadow, light lipstick, powder. Nothing that clashed with the outfit. She thought she’d done a passable job. Until she heard the disbelief in Ardelia’s voice. ‘Borrowed some a’ yours. Does it look bad?’

‘No, no, I’m just… surprised.’ Ardelia pecked Clarice on the cheek, pausing to sniff her. ‘And you’re wearing my perfume?’

‘Yeah. Too much?’

‘No, you look great. You smell great.’ Ardelia leaned against Clarice’s back, propping her chin on the shorter woman’s head – lightly, so as not to disturb her gelled hair. Ardelia’s own curls, pulled into a loose pineapple bun on top of her head, hung springy and sweet. ‘I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. It’s kinda girly.’

‘Well, I _am_ a girl,’ Clarice mumbled, eyeing herself. All of her features looked too bright. The colour of her eyes looked off, her lips were too shiny, her freckles barely there. She sighed. ‘But I look like a boy in drag. Who’s tryin’ too hard.’

‘Nah. It’s just different from the usual.’ Her slim arms encircled Clarice’s waist, careful not to wrinkle her clothes. ‘Nervous?’

‘Yeah.’ Clarice covered Ardelia’s hands with her own. ‘Been a while since I’ve had to red up. Seems a waste doin’ so to talk to a killer. Wish I were takin’ you out instead.’

‘He’s not just any killer.’

Clarice raised her eyebrows. ‘No. He ain’t.’

‘He won’t judge you for your dress sense. Not if he’s got any intellectual honesty.’ She picked at a loose curl hanging in front of her face. ‘I mean, he eloped with flannel superstar Will Graham.’

‘Will Graham ain’t a woman.’

‘Why does it matter what he thinks?’ Ardelia slipped away from Clarice to untie her hair. ‘He won’t care. Apart from anything else, he’s gay.’

‘We don’t know that. An’ if he is, that’s worse. Straight-actin’ gay guys’re worse about that shit than store brand straight guys.’

‘You think he’s _straight-acting_?’

‘For a European fella? Sure.’

Ardelia smiled, but her eyes were serious. ‘Babe. Crawford picked you for a reason. You’ve got this.’

‘Fucked up that practical,’ Clarice muttered.

‘Good thing you’re interviewing someone and not raiding a house, then, huh?’

Clarice clicked her tongue in disapproval, but the tension in her stance had lightened. Jack _had_ chosen her, out of everyone else in Quantico. He believed in her. Neuroses about her looks were just pithy self-sabotage. She could do it.

And yet.

Conjuring up the last public photo of Hannibal, as he exited the courtroom, grinning in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes, moments after being sentenced to life in a mental hospital –

She couldn’t help being restless.

Ardelia had started humming quietly, picking up bath products from the shelves.

‘Not goin’ back to bed?’ asked Clarice.

‘Nah, I’m awake now.’ She pulled off her t-shirt, revealing an expanse of toned umber flesh. No matter how often she saw Ardelia naked, the sight always stirred something inside Clarice. With a grin, she cupped Ardelia’s right breast and placed a goodbye kiss on her nipple, leaving behind a faint lipstick imprint. Ardelia flicked her on the forehead, mock-indignant. ‘Not before I’ve showered! I’m sweaty!’

‘They’re practically eye-level! Y’know I can’t reach your mouth ‘less I’m on my tip-toes, and what does that do for my ego?’

Ardelia stuck out her tongue and kept undressing. ‘Text me when you get to Baltimore?’

Clarice nodded. ‘I’ll call you tonight.’

‘You’re on it, Reese. Go mindfuck that S.O.B.’

Clarice smiled a little, though her heart was going hard. Ardelia stepped into the shower and Clarice turned to go. Catching a final glance of the stranger in the mirror, she hesitated.

‘Dee?’ she said.

‘Yeah?’ Ardelia replied over the running water.

‘Can I borrow somethin’ else?’

 

\---

 

Ardelia’s pearls bit into Clarice’s lobes like shiny blue ticks. She resisted the urge to adjust them, focusing instead on the staff member before her. Clarice had dealt with big men before – had even beaten a couple in fights – but this orderly was a vision in white, towering powerfully over her, the height and breadth of refrigerator.

All of which made his gentle voice and demeanour more than a little disarming.

‘Good morning, Agent Starling,’ said Barney, bright-eyed. ‘How was your trip?’

‘As pleasant as can be leavin’ at 5AM.’

Barney chuckled, a deep rumbling noise in his barrel chest. ‘Wish I got to sleep in.’

Clarice followed him down the first of many card-restricted doors. The spacious lobby gave way to a wide hallway lined with dozens of identical full-body metal turnstiles, each with its own black keycard device. As they walked to the gate on the far left, Clarice peered through the turnstiles, which stretched into hallways of cells, each housing an inmate of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

And all of them put together didn’t inspire an ounce of the popular fear and fascination that Hannibal did.

After another short corridor and a heavy metal door, Clarice and Barney found themselves in a plain white room, with what appeared to be a normal sliding door at the other end. Only the number pad on the wall betrayed that something was amiss.

‘Don’t pass him anything but the folder and the loose papers inside,’ Barney stated in a practiced monotone. ‘Don’t touch the glass. Don’t stray from the topics you okayed with management.’

‘Don’t feed him after dark?’

Barney smiled. ‘I’m sure you know this stuff, but I’ve gotta give everyone the same talk. Things can go wrong.’ Before Clarice could ask him to elaborate, he touched his card to the device on the wall, punched in a code, and cracked open the door.

The room was more spacious than expected, but only two-thirds of it served as a cell. A huge plexiglass pane divided the space, bisected by a horizontal row of holes the size of Ping-Pong balls that allowed oxygen and sound to flow through. Both sides of the pane were Spartan. The visitor’s side held only a single plastic chair, placed squarely in the middle, regulation distance away from the glass. The inside of the cell contained five pieces of furniture: a narrow bed, a sink and toilet, a flimsy collapsible desk, and a matching chair. A few books were stacked on the ground near the bed, stripped down to their bare essentials, sheaves held together with glue – no covers, no spines. Nothing hard. And there was art.

Clarice stepped closer, staring at the dozens of sheets of paper covering the walls. The largest sheets simulated windows, each showing a different landscape rendered with photographic accuracy. A thick Nordic forest seen from high above, as though from a castle.  A rolling field in the early Fall, being harvested by tiny farmers in tiny tractors. A Southern European neighbourhood of snaking Medieval cobbled streets, all tiled roofs and verandas. Beside the landscapes were portraits, some of whom Clarice guessed to be of extended family members, others of people she recognised from years of documentaries and news reports.

By and large, though, the walls were dominated by one person.

Drawings of Will Graham were everywhere. Some were straightforward renditions, likely pulled from memory: Will standing in a stream in fishing gear; Will coaxing a stray dog to accept his touch; Will asleep, nestled against the artist’s side.

Others were more extravagant.

Will as Saint Sebastian, bound and penetrated by scores of arrows, head thrown back in ecstasy. Will reclining on stain sheets, crowned with laurel and tended to by faceless slaves. Will triumphant after battle, bathing in a stream.

A particularly elaborate rendition of Will clutching a bloodied Abigail Hobbs, glaring at the viewer like a vengeful Madonna and child.

And in the middle of it all was Hannibal Lecter.

His blue BSHCI uniform hung looser than in the court photographs. He still stood with impeccable posture and bearing, that same smile not quite reaching his eyes. But he was tired. Older. Bad food, no sunshine, and a lack of exercise had made his skin sallow, his muscles shrink, the lines of his face deepen and darken.

Clarice felt her cheeks become hot and hoped to God she wasn’t visibly blushing. She’d been prepared for fear, disgust, anger – but seeing him surrounded by these intimate portraits of his lover evoked reflex shame, sympathy. A sense of intrusion. Of comradeship. In the inside pocket of her suit jacket, the phone screen backdrop of Ardelia burned against her breast.

Her lips tightened. Destabilised already. Shit.

‘Hello, Barney. I see you’ve brought my visitor.’ Hannibal nodded at Clarice. His eyes were inscrutable. Fixed on her face. Unease broiled at the bottom of her stomach.

‘Morning, Dr Lecter.’ Barney walked to the metal drawer at the far end of the room to retrieve the empty breakfast tray. ‘Special Agent Clarice Starling, Dr Hannibal Lecter. Dr Lecter, Agent Starling.’

‘How d’you do, Dr Lecter?’ Clarice asked, sitting down in front of him. She instantly wished she hadn’t. Hannibal stayed standing, looking down at her.

Barney carried the tray to the door. ‘I’ll come back when your time’s up, but buzz or wave if you need anything.’ He indicated the intercom by the door, and the camera nestled in the corner of the ceiling. In theory, it was good to know staff were keeping an eye on them. But did they lack confidence in their visitors, or in their own ability to keep the prisoners safely locked up?

Barney swiped his card and nudged the door open with his shoulder.

‘Thanks, Barney. See you later,’ said Clarice.

Barney left. The door clicked shut.

And they were alone.

Clarice smiled nervously and fidgeted with the folder on her lap, toying with the paperclip poking out the top, feeling out an appropriate opening line. Hannibal’s smooth voice came first.

‘May I see your credentials, please?’

Clarice blinked. ‘The FBI’s been in touch with admin, sir.’

‘I’m sure. But you’ll understand if the word of the BSHCI isn’t much good to me.’

Clarice stood, placing the folder on the seat, and lifted her FBI ID from her pocket. She held it up, taking a few steps closer. Hannibal scanned the printed words and photograph carefully, far slower than he should have, then swept his gaze over Clarice’s body as though he needed to confirm it was really her. The blue earrings felt like vises.

‘Thank you,’ Hannibal finally said, with a curt nod. He continued as Clarice returned to the chair. ‘It’s not often a young woman like yourself decides to join the FBI, and it’s even rarer that she is accepted. Congratulations.’

The use of ‘young woman,’ though somewhat accurate, sounded funny on Lecter’s tongue. Belittling.

Clarice smiled.

‘Thanks, Dr Lecter. My youth’s been a hindrance ev’ry step’a the way, I must admit, but I’m glad for the chance t’prove myself.’

‘If your appointment to this case is any indication, you seem to have proved yourself admirably.’ Hannibal unclasped his hands from behind his back and let them hang at his sides. Just as Clarice sat down, he spoke again. ‘May I see the report?’

He could have asked when she’d got up to display her card. Clarice stood again, swiftly strode to the metal drawer, and passed the folder through. Hannibal watched her, then slowly strolled over, plucked the folder out, and wandered back to where he’d started. Clarice was back in her seat, invisibly worrying the inside of her lip with her teeth. She wasn’t surprised when he put the papers on the table without reading them.

‘Jack Crawford really must hold you in high regard, to send you to me after Miriam Lass and Will. It almost seems like tempting fate.’

‘Third time’s the charm,’ Clarice said lightly. ‘Mr Crawford ain’t settin’ me on the hunt for the Ripper. This new case’s a different beast altogether.’

‘A different beast indeed.’ A smirk tugged at Hannibal’s lips. ‘ _This_ beast is caged. What of the one you seek? You’re not worried he’ll come after you, out in the wild?’

‘I don’t think he’d bother huntin’ me. Don’t fit the profile.’

‘Oh?’ He leaned over the file and peeled back the cover. ‘Young women with dark hair, from modest backgrounds, in and around West Virginia… perhaps some cause for concern.’

‘Full-figured girls, with long hair. And no specific economic background.’

‘My apologies. Cases blend together. I must have read four dozen files just like this one since my arrival. They do keep trying. I imagine Will must get the same amount of traffic.’

‘If a resource is available, we’ll use it,’ Clarice said, cautiously. ‘FBI does it, this place does it, ‘n everyone else does it too. Opportunism’s a necessity.’

‘My incarceration here is opportunistic?’

Clarice shrugged. ‘Opportunistic both ways. Hospital gets to study you, you get to stay here ‘stead of in a maximum security facility.’

‘They had the chance to get their hands on my brain, and they took it.’ Hannibal thought about this, briefly cast his eyes down. ‘Frederick Chilton may be retired, but his successor shares his… interest in me. Remarkably, though, not in Will.’

‘You’d be hard pressed t’find a psychiatrist wouldn’t wanna pick your brain, Dr Lecter,’ Clarice commented pleasantly. ‘I’m sure you’d’ve –‘

‘Have you been instructed not to speak to me about Will Graham?’

Clarice took a moment to process the question. ‘We haven’t discussed Will Graham ‘cause he’s not relevant to the investigation.’

‘I saw you looking at my sketches. How old would you have been when Will and I dodged the FBI’s groping hands, Agent Starling? Still a teenager, trapped in the pocket of the Bible Belt. Was it liberating, following our news from the confines of your town? Was it comforting to glimpse two men living freely while you got ready for another date with some hopeless neighbourhood boy?’ His smirk held firm, his eyes were cold. ‘Am I meeting a fan?’

The rich evenness of Hannibal’s voice coupled with his persistent gaze had an entrancing quality – it unplugged her memories and dredged up hours spent in the school library, poring over websites dedicated to the case, taking in pictures of Florence and Vienna and Prague, perfunctorily allowing her prom date to thrust his tongue into her mouth.

Arms around her waist, her feet kicking desperately, lungs raw from futile running.

She clenched her jaw.

Just as quickly as they’d come, the thoughts finished circling the drain and gurgled away. That was all in the past. The distant past. Any lingering sorrow was replaced with irritation.

‘Dr Lecter, I’ve been nothin’ but respectful t’wards you. Petty jabs at my age, my gender, my class, they’re unbecomin’ of a man such as yourself. I was briefed not t’talk about Mr Graham, an’ I didn’t reckon it’d be a problem. I’m here to catch the man responsible for the most gruesome murders this country’s seen since your capture. I ain’t here to talk about your partner any more than I’m here to talk about mine. If you’re only interested in tauntin’ me, I’ll take my leave.’

The only sound in the room came from the quiet hum of electronics operating within the walls. The image of Jack’s face, unimpressed by her failure, flashed across Clarice’s mind. She swallowed the thick spit at the back of her throat.

Hannibal slid a hand over the yellow cover of the folder, then picked it up and opened it.

‘You’re right, Agent Starling,’ he said, glancing from the pages to her face as he spoke. ‘I’m afraid being immured from polite society has inspired in me the narcissism of self-preservation. I’m sorry.’

Clarice nodded. Her heart was beating hard in her chest, her temples, her fingertips. Hannibal flipped through the report quickly, steadily, silently.

‘I _was_ lookin’ at your pictures,’ she heard herself say. ‘Be hard not to. I’ve seen copies a’ your work, but seein’ it in person – it’s beautiful.’

Hannibal’s smile lost its sneering tinge. He kept on reading.

‘Thank you. Art is a window to a better world.’

‘I’ve gotta say I’m surprised they let you keep the portraits of Mr Graham.’

‘They took them, at first.’ He pulled the photographs of the corpses from the plastic sleeve inside the folder and set about laying them side by side along his table. Clarice could glimpse the brown and grey tones of discoloured flesh. ‘Under the pretence of research, or of enforcing some moratorium. But they found me far more amenable to peaceful collaboration if they left my portraits alone. I suspect Dr Chilton wouldn’t have ceded, but our new master, Dr Palmer, prefers the carrot to the stick. Most of the time.’

Photographs neatly lined up, Hannibal shut the folder and placed it on his chair.

‘I’m sure you know your drawings had a way a’ findin’ themselves in online auctions. Good lil’ side-hustle. Sure they’re not pleased you’ve cut it short.’

‘Oh, they still find ways of taking a piece here and there,’ Hannibal commented, amused. ‘They should be grateful I’ve increased my work’s rarity. Wouldn’t want to saturate the market.’ His knuckles were down on the table, supporting his weight as he studied the photos.

Long minutes ticked past. Electricity hummed around them.

‘What’re you thinkin’?’ Clarice chanced.

When she saw how he looked at her, she kicked herself for asking.

‘You’re in a hurry, Agent Starling?’

She was.

‘Not at all, Dr Lecter,’ she said quickly, overeager. ‘Impatient t’get your insight is all.’

Girls were dying every other week.

‘I am flattered my thoughts mean so much to you.’ He stepped away from the table, walked around it. His back was to the folder. No. Nonono.

‘They do.’

His smile didn’t change. ‘Sadly, the feeling isn’t mutual.’

And with a hint of balletic flair, Hannibal turned from Clarice to focus his attention onto his artwork.

The knot in Clarice’s stomach warmed, sparked alight. The muscles in her face twitched. Anger burned through her tendons and she knew her cheeks were filling with colour, highlighting her freckles and only making her look younger.

‘Doctor Lecter – ‘

‘You come to me – ‘

‘ – I know y’ain’t interested – ‘

‘ – under false pretenses – ‘

‘False pretenses?!’ Clarice exclaimed.

‘Your _mask_ , Agent Starling,’ said Hannibal, coolly. ‘This façade. Your scent, your earrings, your makeup. They’re not you, are they? They are tricks employed by an upstart. Obfuscations of a girl so lacking in confidence she can’t play Special Agent without spraying on cheap perfume and playing dress-up. Chanel, yes?’

They watched each other for long, torturous seconds, Abruptly, Clarice plucked out first one earring, then the other, leaving the lobes scarlet and cool and free.

‘Yes. Chanel. I heard about your sense a’ smell, Doctor. Delicate. Inhuman.’ She shifted from her feminine sitting position, adopting a splayed pose that felt more natural, and braced her elbows on her knees, leaning forward.

Amusement returned to Hannibal’s face. ‘You would not be the first to compare me to a ghoul, Agent Starling.’

‘Nah,’ Clarice shook her head. ‘Not a ghoul or a demon or anythin’ like that. Nothin’ that fancy ‘n fictitious. There’s somethin’ primal about you. Animalistic.’ She crossed her arms. ‘Will Graham does love dogs.’

The look that flashed across the doctor’s face froze Clarice’s guts. It was quick, barely a twitch in his countenance, but in Hannibal’s eyes she saw sharp teeth and torn skin and herself, prostrate, drowning in her own blood.

Fuck.

Don’t let him see you shake.

She held firm.

And then, as quickly as it had come, the rage vanished from Hannibal’s features, replaced with his usual affable expression. When he stepped closer to the glass wall, Clarice made sure not to flinch.

‘I believe we are ex aequo.’ His tone was almost musical.

‘I shouldn’t’a said that. It was uncalled for.’

‘No,’ Hannibal said, shaking his head. ‘We’ve been rattling each other’s cages since you arrived. The fault is shared.’

‘Still, unprofessional. Don’t wanna prove you right ‘bout me bein’ a kid outta my depth.’ Clarice rubbed her arms, feeling the cheap material of her suit. ‘That’s what I was when you first escaped. A kid. An’ I didn’t feel much older when you were caught. But those days are a while back.’

She looked up to meet Hannibal’s eyes.

‘I don’t know how much y’hear ‘bout Will Graham. I know he’s still in Marion, away from gen pop. Partly so they can study him, partly for his protection, mostly for the sake of the other inmates. He got cornered in the showers by two skinheads took exception to his relationship with you. Figure they thought killin’ him was easy braggin’ rights. Guards walked in t’find Graham showerin’ like nothin’ was wrong, with the skinheads on the ground missin’ their faces, eyes ‘n tongues. No word on whether he used their knives or jus’ his teeth.’

Hannibal took a deep breath, his chest swelling with something like pride. He made his way back behind the table, and picked up the report.

‘I hadn’t heard of that incident,’ he murmured. ‘Thank you, Agent Starling.’

‘Well, if my partner was in jail, I’d wanna get updates. Don’t think it does much harm lettin’ you know his experience ain’t dissimilar to yours.’

Hannibal flashed Clarice a quick smile between pages. He read much faster than before, finishing the report in minutes. He took a charcoal stick from his art supplies and wrote a note on the inside cover of the folder, then slid the forensic photos back in place. Clarice stood, and they simultaneously walked to the metal drawer connecting their two worlds. The urge to ask questions was immense, but Clarice knew better than to interrogate him unprompted now.

He lowered the folder, but paused before it made contact. He looked at Clarice.

‘Most of the victims had been in the water too long to be much help, but out of eleven cadavers, five were in acceptable condition.’

‘Three latest were in the best condition yet. Barely spent time in the river at all. Either we’re gettin’ better at findin’ ‘em, or he’s gettin’ sloppy.’

‘Those three presented high concentrations of serotonin and free histamines in the bloodstream, particularly where they were flayed.’

Clarice nodded. ‘They were alive when he skinned ‘em.’

‘You didn’t find the same evidence on the earlier bodies. The live flaying is a new development. He is growing to enjoy making women suffer.’ He put the folder in the drawer. ‘Something to keep in mind during the investigation, Agent Starling.’

The drawer clanged when Clarice pulled it over to her side.

‘If you think it’s my first time dealin’ with a woman-hater, I’m sorry to say you’re mistaken.’

‘I’m sure. I just thought I’d express my concern.’

Clarice took the file. ‘’ppreciate it, Doctor, but I’ll be fine. Now – ‘

A familiar series of clicks emanated from the white door, and Barney’s face popped round.

‘Time’s up, Agent Starling,’ he announced.

‘Thanks, Barney,’ Clarice said, with a quick smile. ‘We’re gonna need a couple more minutes – ‘

‘That won’t be necessary.’

Clarice’s head swiveled to Hannibal. He was facing the orderly, arms neatly tucked behind his back.

‘’scuse me?’

‘Agent Starling and I have discussed everything there is to discuss right now. Agent Starling…’

‘No,’ she stated, brows meeting in an incredulous frown. ‘We haven’t. We’re barely past the formalities. Dr Lecter, you haven’t told me any a’ your thoughts on – ‘

‘You will find everything you need inside the folder.’

Clarice felt Barney’s presence a few paces behind her. ‘Dr Lecter – ‘

‘The folder, Agent Starling.’

Her eyes flitted from the file in her hand to the killer before her, and she whipped the cover open. The pages cascaded out onto the floor, slipping on each other to spread into a pool at her feet. Instantly, she dropped to pick them up, flushed red with shame and rage, and Barney soon got down to help her.

‘Ah.’ Hannibal’s voice sounded miles over her. ‘You should take greater care.’

She kissed her teeth to stop a reflexive snarling retort, but her lips parted quizzically when she reopened the folder to place the first pages inside, only to see what Hannibal had jotted down. The writing was tight, with just a hint of typical doctor’s scrawl:

 

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep._

 

As Clarice’s eyes left the note, confused, the scattered pictures of mutilated women, bloated and monochrome, swamped her vision on the way up Hannibal’s body, to his unreadable, benevolent face.

‘Will you be more careful, Agent Starling?’ he asked, staring down at her.

She wanted to beat him down and keep on kicking until he stopped moving.

Clarice swept the remaining pages into her arms in one motion and unceremoniously stuffed them back into their casing, adding the pages Barney picked up when he handed them over to her. She held the folder to her chest and glared at Hannibal.

‘Wouldn’t’ve taken you for a Robert Frost kinda guy.’

Barney cleared his throat. ‘Agent Starling.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry.’

Clarice’s short heels clacked loudly in the silent room as she followed Barney out. She waited behind him as he closed the door. Hannibal’s cell was gradually obscured, casting it back into nothingness. Just as the edge of the door reached the doctor’s body, just as it was about to consume him too, he nodded at Clarice, and his expression sent a shiver down her spine.

It wasn’t until the door was fully shut that she realised she’d been holding her breath. She blew the air out of her nose and it smelled like death.

Barney leaned over slightly. He’d barely be level with her even if he bent double, but it was kind of him to try and make eye contact.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ Clarice said, a little breathlessly. ‘I’m alright, I guess.’

‘It’s okay if you aren’t. It’s pretty intense in there. Especially the first time.’

Clarice glanced at the door. It reminded her of visiting the Hoover Dam, one of the handful of times she’d left the East Coast, tagging along with her classmates one Spring Break. She’d white-knuckled the security railing as she watched the deep blue expanse of Lake Mead, then the sharp plunge into the Black Canyon. The Dam was hundreds of feet thick and it felt solid underfoot, as sturdy as it had always been.

But a man-made barrier containing the raw destructive force of nature made her uneasy. It seemed inadequate. Almost arrogant.

She felt the cardboard folder give a little under her fingers, unconsciously clenching down.

‘Need a minute?’

Clarice shook her head. ‘I’m good. Gotta get back.’ She started walking, prompting Barney to do the same. ‘I dunno if I actually got anythin’ outta that or if he was just fuckin’ with me, ‘scuse the language.’

‘That’s the Doc, alright. It’s no wonder it took years to find him. He’s a slippery sonuvabitch.’

The pair turned into the hallway leading to the rest of the patients’ cells, and the noises of everyday life started making the atmosphere less oppressive.

‘Ya’ll seem to get along okay, if y’don’t mind me sayin’.’

‘You get used to him. If you’re polite and you don’t pry – and you’re not here to analyse him – he’s okay to work with.’ Barney beeped his card to let them back into the lobby. ‘Wouldn’t trust him for a second, but he’s never done me wrong. Even gives me pictures to bring back to my wife and kids.’

‘Fancy. What’d they think?’

Barney turned to her with an ironic smile. ‘They don’t. I’ve lived with my dad since he had his stroke. Between that and my job, I don’t have time for relationships. But Lecter doesn’t need to know what my life’s really like, and he ain’t finding out.’

‘Smart.’

‘I try. You want me to get you a paperclip?’

‘My car’s right outside, thanks. I’ll be okay.’

‘I’ll get you a paperclip,’ Barney said, darting off before Clarice could reply.

Feeling awkward standing alone in reception, Clarice stepped out into the breezy morning. She closed her eyes and filled her lungs with fresh air and sunshine.

Ardelia often joked about Clarice’s dependence on light, her discomfort in the dark. Said she’d be there to save Clarice from the night, just as long as Clarice could protect her from literally everything else. It was a fair trade.

What would it be like to be forced apart?

‘Hey.’

Clarice opened her eyes. Barney was looking at her with concerned, clutching a fistful of paperclips.

‘Thanks, Barney. ‘ppreciate it.’

Barney dropped the clips in her palm, uncertain.

‘You sure you’re okay?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I am. Why’d you – ‘

She stopped when she felt the tears trickling down her cheeks. When did she start crying?

Mortified, she rubbed her face with the back of her hand, dearly hoping the makeup she’d borrowed was waterproof.

‘Oh, jeez,’ she muttered. ‘I dunno what’s up with me today, I haven’t cried in – years, I don’t think, I – ‘

‘Don’t worry,’ Barney cut in. ‘It’s _intense_. I don’t know anyone who’s felt right after seeing him.’

Clarice didn’t know what to say. Barney awkwardly pointed at her fist.

‘Enjoy the paperclips. See you around.’

‘Yeah. Bye, Barney,’ she called, as he retreated back into the Institute. The glass doors slid shut behind him, and Clarice felt the untreated ends of the clips poking into her skin like tiny vipers’ teeth.

 

\---

 

Catherine pulled her jacket tighter around herself, staggered to her feet, and took a final long hit of her cigarette. She’d sat down at some point – though who knows when – and it had taken a good twenty minutes for the damp cold to penetrate the haze of her drunkenness. Twenty minutes! She was quite literally freezing her ass off. Mumbling curses, she crushed her roach underfoot and took the phone out of her purse.

‘Where the hell are ya…’ she muttered, impatiently tapping the Uber app symbol.

This was _meant_ to have been a good night, and that’s how it had started. Her mom had wired through a couple extra hundred along with a text reminding her not to have _too_ much fun (smiley face emoji), and she’d been the hero of all the bars they’d hopped, buying drinks and baggies of weed for her entourage. She’d felt like a queen and she’d been treated like one, too.

And then Dolores couldn’t handle her blunt. Then Lee and Tom hooked up with a pair of twins and disappeared. Then Sam’s wallet got stolen. And so on. Until Catherine found herself downing five shots on her own, surrounded by strangers she knew had to be judging her, and she realized she just wanted to go home.

That’s how she ended up outside the bar, sitting in a puddle until her mind cleared, and getting increasingly aggravated as her thumb kept missing the Uber icon and she had to manually close Candy Crush for the third time.

A loud honk almost made her drop her phone. A Chevy station wagon had pulled up to the corner, old but with a retro charm, and she could vaguely see the outline of a man waving at her from the open driver-side window. _Finally._

‘You know how long I’ve been waiting?’ she slurred, shutting the backseat door with more force than strictly necessary.

‘Name?’ the driver asked.

‘Yeah, yeah, it’s Catherine. You see anyone else waitin’?’

‘No ma’am.’ He started the car down the alley towards the main road. ‘’scuse me for bein’ late. I hadda drop my daughter off with her mom, y’see.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Celebratin’?’ he asked gruffly. The red neon lights of the bar signs illuminated his rough hands, loosely holding the steering wheel.

There was something familiar about him, almost like she’d seen him earlier - but she couldn’t have. She’d called him on Uber, he’d been with his daughter, and he clearly hadn’t been drinking, so he definitely wouldn’t have been at the bar.

‘Yeah. It’s my birthday. My friends ditched me.’

‘Sorry to hear.’

‘Hey, I got dumped by my boyfriend in friggin’ Walmart last week, I obviously don’t make the best choices about who I hang out with!’ Catherine punctuated this by weakly dropping her fist on the leather seat. The car was growing on her, with its vintage feel. She suddenly felt very aware of her rain-soaked butt on the leather, and hoped it wouldn’t stain.

‘Aw, heck, you’re young. Kid’s’re always like that. ‘s not your fault.’

‘Thanks.’ Her phone vibrated to tell her the battery was running low, and she quickly turned it off before putting it in her purse.

‘How old’s that make you? Twenty?’

‘Twenty-one, and I sure took advantage.’

The driver laughed. ‘Twenty-one! Y’got your whole life ahead a’ you, Catherine,’ he said absent-mindedly, briefly catching her eyes in the rearview mirror. She saw his strong brow and his big, pale eyes. ‘Happy birthday.’

Catherine smiled. He was the nicest guy she’d met tonight, though admittedly the bar wasn’t set very high. Nausea started bubbling up inside her and she settled back in the comfortable seat with her eyes closed, not wanting to risk throwing up. The old leather smelled good, though she noticed the lingering acrid tang of cleaning chemicals too.

‘You’re sweet,’ she sighed, leaning her forehead on the cool window.

Had she been paying attention, she would have noticed the car turning into a deserted parking lot.

Had her phone been switched on, she would have received the message notifying her that her Uber driver was almost there.

Had her eyes been open, she would have shrieked at the hulking figure leaning over her, twisting around the driver’s seat.

She didn’t have the chance to feel fear before Jame Gumb smashed a red brick into her temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the accents are okay! I'm a simple European peasant and I writes it like I hears it


	4. Asam Laksa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice follows the lead she got from Hannibal and meets the boys in forensics. Will has a bad time.

Her feet squelched with every step, first sinking deep into the boggy soil, then lifting out with a pull and an audible _pop_ , as though the earth wanted to swallow her up for trespassing on hallowed ground. Rain drizzled down in a fine mist. She could feel it saturating her baseball cap. Her nose had been running ever since they’d arrived in Wolf Trap. She sniffed inelegantly.

It was still a thousand times more comfortable than the fucking makeup and heels.

Clarice peered up at the house ahead. Will Graham’s home wasn’t enormous by any means, but to someone who’d moved from apartment to trailer and back again for years after leaving her uncle’s farm, it still looked damn nice. The boarded-up windows and neon graffiti detracted from its appearance, but it was nothing some TLC and a lick of paint couldn’t fix.

‘We’re not moving into Will Graham’s house,’ said Ardelia, emerging from the passenger seat of the FBI-issue jeep with two coffees. She handed one over to Clarice, who shrugged.

‘Ain’t his ‘nymore.’

‘I bet it smells like dogs in there,’ Ardelia muttered between sips.

‘After ten years? C’mon, Dee, give him some credit. He took care of his pack pretty good. Bathed ‘em for sure.’

‘Doesn’t help. It’s their spit that’s the problem. They lick your stuff and each other and themselves and it _reeks_.’ She crinkled her nose. ‘My aunt Diana had three Pomeranians and they were little stink bombs, so imagine ten big ones.’

‘Maybe he brushed their teeth or somethin’.’ Clarice took a gulp from her cup and approached the building. The hot liquid twisted its way down her throat, into her belly, warming her from the inside out. Ardelia’s sucking steps heralded her following.

‘That’s even weirder. With dog toothbrushes? Human ones?’

‘This you way a’tellin’ me we ain’t gettin’ a dog?’

‘Sorry, Reese. Cats or bust. It’s in the Lesbian Rulebook.’

‘I never got past the index.’

Ardelia snorted. Clarice was glad she’d asked to come. Trading stupid jibes and talking about their future together, even obliquely, made her feel far less uneasy about being here. She rapped the planks over the windows with a gloved knuckle. Still sturdy, but they had a crowbar in the trunk.

She remembered the pictures of Will’s home on Tattlecrime. Freddie Lounds had managed to break in – Clarice recalled the shattered window in the corner of several photographs, under the strategically placed police tape – and had written a bombastic article titled ‘INSIDE WILL GRAHAM’S LAIR’ as a follow-up to an equally sensationalist “exposé” of Lecter’s abode.

Clarice traced the gnarled wood of the house’s dilapidated façade with her fingertip.

What had struck her most was how utterly normal the place looked.

‘You’re sure we’re gonna find clues in here?’ Ardelia asked, taking care to navigate the sagging wooden steps leading onto the porch.

Clarice gave the window a final tap with the side of her fist and nodded. ‘Yeah, I think so. Lecter’s cell’s full up a’ drawing of Will an’ we spent way longer talkin’ ‘bout him than about Bill proper.’ She nodded upwards. ‘Graham’s home fits the poem. “Whose woods these are, I think I know, his house is in the village, though, he will not see me stopping here…” Lecter wouldn’t give me a clue that didn’t relate to our discussion. And ain’t it just like them to leave somethin’ in plain sight?’

Clarice finished her coffee and set the cup down on the deck.

‘Think Lecter’s involved in the Bill case?’ Ardelia asked, following Clarice back out into the rain to examine the side of the house.

‘Not _involved_ involved.’ Clarice paused at another window and examined it closely. She gave the board an experimental tug. ‘But I reckon he knows a heck of a lot more than he’s lettin’ on.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’

Clarice rubbed her hands together to restore some nimbleness, set one muddy foot against the wall, slipped her fingers into a crack between boards, and pulled hard. Before her partner could speak, Clarice suddenly staggered back from the momentum of prying off the plank. She dropped it on the ground and dusted the splinters off her gloves, letting out a short, quiet laugh.

‘Knew it. These were taken down an’ put back up.’

Ardelia peeked into the dark innards of the house.

‘How’d you guess this from Lecter’s scribble?’ she said, more than a little impressed. It was a rhetorical remark, but it gave Clarice pause. She shrugged.

‘Call it a woman’s intuition. I’ll get the crowbar.’

Not all the boards were as loose as the first and even Ardelia, bigger and stronger, had trouble with some of them. Clarice exploded into curses when a particularly stubborn plank snapped back and whacked her on the arm hard enough to bruise, driving her into a berserker-like state that took care of the obstruction. Soon, the square opening of the window sat gaping before them.

Ardelia swiped the crowbar around the edges of the window to get rid any lingering glass, then gestured toward it. ‘Alright. I’ll see you in twenty.’

‘I’ll try not to pick up that dog smell,’ Clarice teased. She gripped the windowsill and hoisted herself inside.

Thin ribs of light shone through gaps in the windows, not nearly enough to illuminate the place. Clarice turned on her phone’s flashlight and swept it around the living room. Not much had changed since the Tattlecrime shoot. There was evidence of past urban explorers’ expeditions, faint imprints in the dust where items had been claimed as trophies – probably _why_ the windows were boarded up in the first place – but a cursory overview revealed nothing egregious. A dozen mouldy pet beds remained where they always had been, fishing equipment and boat motor parts littered every surface. It was easy to picture the room alive with the constant scratching of dog claws padding around, the earthy colours still warm and welcoming, perhaps the smell of brewing coffee.

Standing there now, she felt foolish. Logically, she knew that finding a clue for an open, unrelated case here was one hell of a reach, but how much did logic actually factor into an investigation like this?

The floor creaked ominously every other step, dust floating up whenever she brushed past furniture. It created a distinct horror vibe that had her half expecting a black cat to dart past with a shriek. But there was nothing save for her footfalls and breathing and the gentle noise of rain on the roof. Clarice hummed tunelessly. Silence and darkness made her nervous.

Move along.

Picking an open door at random, she poked her head through and shone her light.

The bedroom. Figures a paranoid guy would sleep on the ground floor.

A thick layer of dust covered everything, like in the rest of the house. Black mould grew out of the ceiling’s corners, peeked out from behind dressers, filled the room with a pungent musty scent.

There was a lump in the middle of the bed.

Clarice walked closer, heart skipping with the creak of each footstep. She wondered if Will had kept the floorboards like this deliberately, to better detect movement. If it creaked happily when the dogs came in for the night, snuggling close, breathing and snoring to remind him of their presence. Sharing a bed, even with a pet, always made Clarice sleep easier, calmed her down if she jumped awake from dreams of grasping hands and frantic screams.

Shining the light on her feet, Clarice noted imprints on the dusty ground. They were faded, nowhere near as clear as hers, but still visible. She took care not to disturb them as she reached the bed, grasped a corner of the sheet, raised it, and pointed her light under.

Right into a pair of yellow eyes.

Clarice flinched, reflexively putting her hand over her hammering heart. The sheet drifted down. Whispering curses, she took a few deep breaths, and gingerly returned for a second look.

The lump turned out to be a large mason-style jar filled with pale liquid the shade of watery urine. A discoloured woman’s face pressed against the walls of the container, her lifeless eyes staring eternally from between half-open lids. Her long hair floated around her like wispy tentacles, obscuring the stump of her neck. Her mouth hung open, red lips pressed against the glass in an obscene kiss.

‘Ardelia!’ Clarice hollered. She let the sheet go and walked back into the living room. The broken window was like a floodlight in the murky house. ‘Ardelia?’

‘Yeah?’ Clarice saw Ardelia’s face outside. Even swaddled in FBI-issue Fall gear, squinting to keep the rain out of her eyes, she was gorgeous and she made Clarice feel less afraid.

Clarice leaned out of the windowsill, her upper body out in the open. Rain dripped down the brim of her hat – a souvenir her uncle had bought her when they visited Ansted’s mystery spot for her fifteenth birthday. She’d tactically withheld that her reason for wanting the hat was that it was emblazoned with the words MYSTERY HOLE. Ardelia usually got a kick out of it. She was deadly serious now.

‘Yeah,’ said Clarice. ‘We’re gonna need HQ.’

 

\---

 

‘That son of a bitch!’

Brian Zeller snapped off his latex gloves and put his fists on his hips, glaring at the severed head resting on the dissection table.

‘He’s known this _whole_ time. This whole time!’ Brian continued. ‘That son of a _bitch_.’

‘Calling him a son of a bitch over and over isn’t going to help.’ Jack crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow.

‘No, but it makes me feel better, so it’s gotta count for something.’

‘Lecter’s always been slick,’ said Jimmy, draping a small white sheet over the corpse fragment. ‘I’m not surprised he held out on something like this.’

‘You think he did this?’ Clarice gestured towards the victim. She’d parked herself against the sink, close enough to be able to see the forensics team work, but far enough not to be a nuisance. Jack seemed to have no such compunction, easily stomping around the men and their workspace.

Jimmy shook his head. ‘Unlikely. Totally outside his M.O., and more importantly – ‘

‘Dates don’t line up,’ Brian finished. ‘It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when it happened, what with the pickling, but it was definitely around the time he and, uh, Graham were in Europe.’

‘We think,’ Jimmy added.

‘We think,’ Brian agreed.

Jack mulled this over, tip-tapping his index finger on the metal surface of the operating table. ‘Did Bill kill her?’

‘I guess. I don’t see why Lecter would’ve pointed Starling to her otherwise.’

Hearing her name spoken casually down there, in the guts of forensics department, gave Clarice an unexpected thrill. It made her role feel official. She spoke, more wondering aloud than truly asking: ‘How’d he know Bill hid the head in Will Graham’s house?’

‘I don’t think Bill did hide it there. We know he’s a big guy – he’s gotta be to cause all that damage – but the footsteps we found in Graham’s house aren’t those of a grown man. They’re way too small and light.’

‘So, what, you think he’s got an accomplice?’ Jack was getting irritated. ‘This a Sunset Strip Killers situation?’

Brian raised his hands defensively, frustrated. ‘Man, I don’t know. I can only tell you what the crime scene’s told me.’

‘And what has it told you?’ asked Clarice.

Jimmy took the clipboard covered in chickenscratch from the end of the operating table and read off his and Brian’s notes:

‘White female, early sixties, identity unknown. Postmortem decapitation.  There’s a truckload of makeup at the bottom of the jar that must’ve flaked off her face, but I couldn’t tell you if our Mr. B. applied it and overdid it, or if she was just a real cosmetics aficionado.’ He placed the board face-down on a wheeled table beside him. ‘We’ve sent DNA samples and dental molds to see if there’s any matches, but she’s not on the Bureau’s radar as an important missing persons case.’

‘So what you’re saying is we’re still right at square one,’ Jack commented dryly.

‘We’re forensics, Jack. We’re not miracle workers.’

Before Jack could scold Brian for his attitude, Clarice swung forward from where she stood, grabbed the hat and jacket she’d hung up, and started pulling them on.

‘I’ll go talk to Lecter again. I solved his puzzle. He’s gotta give me more time, right?’

‘I don’t think I want you talking to him regularly, Starling,’ Jack said gruffly.

‘Won’t be regular. Ain’t got the patience to deal with a fella like him more’n a coupla times. But our Jane Doe looks like a dead end, at least for now, an’ I gotta let the Doc know we found ‘er.’

‘He knows.’

Clarice paused. ‘What d’you mean, sir?’

‘I called the BSHCI as soon as you told me.’

Clarice couldn’t stop the disbelief from scrunching up her face. ‘But they’ll punish him. What if he decides he ain’t – ‘

‘That man’s made a fool of me too long and too damn often,’ Jack cut in, loudly. ‘If he gets “inconvenienced” by having his books confiscated, good. Judging by how he treated you, he still needs knocking down a couple hundred pegs.’

The boss’ assertive tone made it hard to argue. Brian and Jimmy eyed Clarice expectantly. In a way, she was touched that Jack had been angry on her behalf, even if it was only because he saw her as his proxy. She still wanted to protest, but she’d heard rumours of his explosive temper. Turning him against her would accomplish nothing.

‘Alright. Jus’ hope he won’t be harder to negotiate with, is all.’

‘Like getting him rambling is hard,’ Brian interjected. ‘Talk about a guy in love with his own voice.’

‘Let him monologue if he wants. Agent Starling’s shown us she can trim the fat and get right to the meat of it.’ Jack checked his watch, and patted Clarice’s shoulder on his way out. ‘Get some rest. I’ll have a car freed up for your ride to Baltimore.’

Soon, he was out of sight.

Clarice dithered, swaying where she stood. The pathologists busied themselves with routine cleaning and preparation for their next cadaver, and though they said nothing, their constant glances clearly asked why she was still there.

She cleared her throat. Smiled.

‘So. I take it y’ain’t Dr Lecter’s biggest fans.’

Jimmy nodded, eyebrows raised, but he didn’t look up from his work.

Brian huffed. ‘He’s a scumbag,’ he spat, dropping a tray of surgical implements into a sink with a clatter. ‘People say he’s this big-time European charmer and, oh, no wonder poor Will got roped in – gimme a break. Even if he _wasn’t_ a killer, he’d still be an asshole.’

‘You only say that because he drinks wine that doesn’t come from a box,’ Jimmy sighed.

‘Okay, one, _Vi_ _ña Borgia_ is great.’

‘Amen,’ Clarice mumbled.

‘Thanks. Two, it’s not just that. I mean, sure, he’s pretentious –‘

With a flourish, Jimmy closed his notepad to shoot his colleague a deadpan gaze. ‘Is it pretension if he actually knows his stuff?’

‘Jim, don’t be a bitch, you know what I mean. He’s a bastard and I’ll be glad when he kicks it and finally ends this whole megillah.’

Clarice considered this. ‘What about Will Graham?’

The ensuing stillness lasted almost a whole minute. Brian washed the tools, interrupting the steady sound of flowing water whenever he rinsed something off. Finally, Jimmy said:

‘I feel sorry for him.’

Brian grunted. Interesting.

‘Ya’ll get along when he worked here?’

‘Not really. That was more Bev’s thing.’

Silence again. It had been a decade, but Clarice remembered the name Bev, Beverly. Beverly Katz. Chesapeake Ripper victim. FBI.

Brian’s animosity towards Hannibal made even more sense.

‘She feel sorry for ‘im too?’

Jimmy’s brow furrowed, and for once, he looked like the tired old man he was. ‘No. Maybe a little. It was hard not to. But she did really like him. They were friends.’

Brian strode between them, drying his hands with a paper towel. He faced firmly away from Clarice as he spoke, voice husky.

‘She treated him like a kid brother and he only goes and _fucks_ her killer. She saw the good in him. Believed in him. He had so many people believing in him.’

He pushed the pedal on a trash can and threw the towel inside. His body seemed slumped, empty of the tension it held before.

‘I hope he’s got a mirror so he can look himself in the eyes every day and feel fucking ashamed.’

 

\---

 

He stared at the ceiling with dark, baggy eyes. The angry pupil of the halogen light glared back, the face-off continuing until he had to blink away stinging tears.

His name was Will Graham.

He was sitting in solitary confinement in the Marion Correctional Center.

He didn’t know what time it was.

How long had it been since he’d slept?

Glancing away from the lamp above, Will took in the confines of his room. They’d taken away his mirror when they’d judged it “too risky,” fearing he’d break it or lose himself in his own reflection. They’d taken away his shoes, only returning them on the rare occasions he left his cell, so every step on the smooth concrete floor was cold and unpleasant. They’d taken away anything he could feasibly use as a distraction, as a source of comfort.

The already shaky pretences of rehabilitation or study had been dropped like hot coals after the incident in the showers. Now, there was only detached confinement.

He felt goose bumps pop up on his exposed arms and rubbed them with his hands to mitigate the cold. The short sleeves of his uniform made it hard to be comfortable at the best of times, let alone in the middle of Fall. He had his blanket, of course – there was no Nurse Ratched deliberately torturing him – but right now, he welcomed the chill. It stopped him sleeping.

Stopped him dreaming.

Early on, in the hospital, in prison, throughout the trials and the transfers from one jail to another, dreaming had been a blessing. Will only had to close his eyes and take Orpheus’ hand and soon, he could hear the sound running water, smell wood and earth and smoke, feel the weight of Hannibal’s arm on his shoulders.

Hannibal.

The more time passed, the harder it became to reach that headspace, to meet Hannibal in the mind palace or burrow in a well-worn memory. It hadn’t become difficult in a _practical_ sense. If anything, disassociation happened at the drop of a hat now, as though his mind were constantly trying to beam him to paradise.

No. It had become harder emotionally.

Mentally.

Escapism only highlighted the hell of his existence. What was the use of disappearing inside an idyll of quiet fishing retreats and walking hand in hand along ancient European streets if it meant returning to _this_?

He was so _tired._

Absently, he raised an arm over his head and spread his fingers apart, blocking out the omnipresent halogen light. In the absence of a looking-glass, he could only rely on his hands to relay the rate of his decay. Slowly flexing his fingers, he watched the veins and sinew move like fat worms under sallow skin. Where his skin had been elastic and pliable, weight loss and poor nutrition had turned it loose and rubbery, as if oversized to his bony frame.

The hand descended to feel the thin, bulging scar across his throat. Immediate medical attention had allowed the wound to heal clean and quick, leaving a crescent-moon on his neck to match the full, sunken scar on his stomach, where Hannibal had penetrated him that seminal night.

He thought of Abigail, just out of reach, carmine-clad, his own vitality seeping out of the new hole in his abdomen.

He thought of Abigail, gasping through both her mouth and neck when he had shot her father.

He thought of Abigail.

Gently, his hand roamed up. First his fingertips, then the lengths of his digits, his dry palm, until his wrist rested against his mouth. As children, the boys in his classes would press wet kisses against that same spot to simulate the feeling of a girl’s mouth on theirs, breaking out into fits of laughter at how stupid they looked.

Will brushed his lips against the inside of his wrist once, twice. It was soft, comforting. A faint, faint echo of bright days filled with travel and tender meat and Hannibal.

And Hannibal.

His teeth grazed the skin tentatively.

It was getting harder to reach that headspace.

Harder.

Harder now. Teeth first scratching, then digging painfully into the hard, complex mass of nerves and veins and bone that comprised his arm until he tasted copper warmth and the flavour of his own pathetic flesh.

As he bit and chewed with mounting frenzy, hearing the cacophony of orderlies unlocking his cell, he felt a peaceful glow illuminate his stomach for the first time in months.


	5. Kuih

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal knows more than he’s letting on, but he’s got some demands if he’s to cooperate further.

Hannibal stood square in the middle of his cell, hands clasped behind his back. The short sleeves of his summer uniform showed the curve of his biceps, the craters of bullet scars. Clarice felt a steady, aggravating trickle of sweat run the length of her spine, marking a dark stripe down her dress shirt. The small room was almost unbearably hot. The heating was out of whack, allegedly – but she suspected it was as much a deliberate punishment as the constant stream of Infowars being piped through the loudspeakers. Barney shrugged apologetically and turned it down to a murmur when he led her in, but Clarice knew it would be back to ear-splitting volume the second she departed. And, of course, there were the newly naked walls. No trace of artwork, supplies, books, mail.

The stick in place of the ineffective carrot.

Clarice shifted. No words had been exchanged since their initial greeting. They were on a time limit.

‘When they take ‘em?’ she asked, nodding at the ascetic cell.

‘When good Jack Crawford called to give us the news,’ Hannibal replied impassively. ‘My books are in storage. My sketches have been destroyed.’

Clarice clicked her tongue, grimacing – and it wasn’t just an act. It was more than he deserved, but it was hard not to feel a twinge of sympathy at the loss of hundreds – thousands? – of hours of work.

As if on cue, he sighed through his nose and parted his lips a second before actually speaking.

‘I have been imprisoned for seven years, Agent Starling. I was added to this institution’s collection to allow my so-called pathology to be studied. So that researchers not dissimilar to yourself can harness the power of a century of psychiatric research to pick apart the threads of my identity.’

He paused. Clarice nodded encouragingly.

‘Perhaps you could inform the powers that be that their goal is doomed to fail, so long as they apply the same techniques used on rats to investigate adult human beings,’ he continued. ‘I can’t abide this routine.’ Then, he looked away from her, and took a few steps to the side, not quite facing away, not quite open.

Inwardly, Clarice groaned. _Thanks, Mr Crawford._

Outwardly, she smiled with a hint of irony.

‘The Lord works in mysterious ways, and the lords’ ways mysteriously don’t work. ‘s what our pastor liked t’say.’

Hannibal didn’t reply, gazing down at his feet.

‘Think of it another way. Knowin’ it’s a glorified Skinner Box means it’s easy to get your books back. Your charcoal ‘n paper. Jus’ play along.’

Clarice reached into the inside pocket of the blazer she’d slung over the back of her chair. She’d dropped off the kitten heels and awkward pantsuit back at Goodwill and splurged on a men’s suit over the weekend, something that made her feel confident and strong. It needed to be taken in – there weren’t many men of her short stature – but even slightly too big, it still felt _right_. She pulled out a few photographs of the severed head taken by the forensics team and pressed the pictures to the glass wall.

‘How’d y’know we’d find her in Will Graham’s house? Who is she? Why’d Bill kill her?’

The low hum of right-wing anger droned on in the background. It put her in mind of the church in Sutton. They’d drive down every week, an hour round-trip in the back of her uncle’s truck, to hear the pastor spit fire and brimstone to an ecstatic flock. Every once in a while, he’d pull a trick out of his sleeve to keep them entertained, and one day, for whatever reason – a dislike of her intelligence, a distrust of her outsider status, an inkling of her complex sexual awakening in her uncertain eyes – he had brought out a basket and asked her to open it. In front of the congregation, she lifted the top and found herself face to snout with a timber rattlesnake.

The pastor calmly took the snake out and gestured with it as he spoke, handing it over to her after a particularly inspired declamation of Luke 10:19. With all eyes on her, Clarice had no choice but to accept the animal, and she let it slither on her bare arms and shoulders while the man beside her shouted his passion. All the while, she knew one wrong move would end with a trip to the hospital at best, a long stay in a pine box at worst.

At the end of the service, when the snake was released back into the grass, Clarice’s uncle put a warm, heavy hand on her shoulder, and his face was full of beaming pride and gleaming white teeth.

Hannibal still didn’t face her.

‘You profess to understand my frustration, my longing for stimulating challenges. But you ask me these dull questions?’

In a flash, he dropped both arms and lunged towards Clarice. The sudden movement almost made her flinch, but she held firm. He stared at the images and made a small “come-hither” gesture, prompting her to roll the pictures up and slip them through one of the round air-holes crossing the thick glass partition. Hannibal carefully straightened them out, neatly piling them on top of each other.

‘If you want me to respond to a Skinner Box, then so be it. I will fill you in on every detail I know or have noticed.’ He tapped the pictures against his palm. ‘In exchange, I want to be transferred to the same facility as Will.’

Clarice blinked, mouth curling into an incredulous smile. Hannibal met it with his own affable grin.

Of course he was serious. Why wouldn’t he be?

‘I don’t think that’s very likely to happen,’ she said in an exhale. ‘D’you?’

‘I know the FBI can be exceptionally resourceful, Agent Starling.’

‘You’re in no position t’make demands, Dr Lecter.’

‘Oh?’ He gestured to her with the photographs. ‘That seems entirely against the spirit of this operation. Why should I help if not to be rewarded? I’m playing by your rules, Agent –‘

‘They’re not _my_ rules, okay?’ Clarice interrupted. ‘I’ve got about as much leverage as you, Doc, and you know it.’

‘Would you grant my request if you could?’

Clarice opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

‘No.’

With a raise of his eyebrows and a hint of a smirk, Hannibal redirected his gaze to the photos. Clarice’s fingers dug into her arms.

‘What about bringin’ him here? Reckon movin’ Will Graham’d be a helluva lot easier ‘n safer than you, sir. No offense.’

‘I don’t just wish to be reunited with Will. I want to bid farewell to this absurd purgatory, not drag him into it.’

Clarice leaned forward again and the sudden chill where her sweaty back had been pressed against the chair scattered goosebumps all over her skin. ‘The place holdin’ Graham doesn’t have the means t’accommodate inmates like y’self.’

‘I believe there are more than two jails in our great nation.’

‘Your quality a’ life would _plummet_ in a reg’lar jail, Doctor.’

‘We can take care of ourselves.’

Though she knew it was a bad idea, Clarice scoffed. ‘We transfer ya’ll to a high-security prison and what, you’re free to tiptoe through the tulips? Other inmates leave y’alone outta the kindness a’ their hearts?’

‘You’ve heard my terms, Agent Starling.’

The chair’s legs squealed harshly on the concrete floor when she stood. ‘Answer my questions, Dr Lecter.’

‘When did you last retrieve a victim?’ He was musing aloud, not speaking _to_ her so much as _at_ her. ‘The clock ticks. The sand slips. Grain by grain, the next girl is buried.’

Clarice clenched her fist around the collar of her jacket and whisked it off the chair, marching to the intercom near the door. She pressed the single button and brought her mouth close.

‘We’re done here.’

It only took Barney a couple of minutes to open the door, but it was enough time for Clarice’s mounting rage to reach a boiling point, manifesting in her trembling hands.

‘Goodbye, Agent Starling,’ she heard that oaken voice behind her as she stepped out. ‘And good luck.’

‘Thanks for the help,’ she spat.

Barney pressed a button on a small remote and closed the door. Soon, muffled shouting leaked through into the hall as Alex Jones was dialled back up.

‘Productive meeting, huh?’

Clarice looked up at Barney, whose eyes glimmered with understanding and sardonic humour. She started towards the exit, closely followed by the swift, heavy footfalls of the orderly.

‘He’s a piece of shit,’ she muttered through gritted teeth.

After a barebones explanation of what had happened, Barney hummed pensively as he swiped them through a keycard door.

‘I’m not gonna argue about his status as a piece of shit,’ he said, ‘but I guess you can’t blame a guy for trying.’

‘Yeah, you can. He’s a psychopath.’

‘He’s in love.’

Clarice snorted. ‘Shoulda thought about that before he became one of the most prolific serial killers in the States! And yes, wise guy, I _know_ he didn’t meet Graham ‘til it was too damn late already. Whose side you on?’

Barney stepped into the lobby and shrugged. ‘Look, I’m bottom of the pile here, but I see what goes on. I talk to people, get to know ‘em. I wouldn’t trust Lecter as far as I could throw him, but I can’t fault him for wanting to get the hell out of dodge.’

Before she could answer, Clarice’s work phone buzzed in her inside pocket.

‘You guys don’t do pagers anymore?’ asked Barney when she fished out her smartphone.

‘We ain’t _that_ old-school,’ she said, checking the newest message. It was from Ardelia. Clarice briefly wondered what she could be texting her about on her work number, and her eyes widened as the screen loaded up a high-resolution image of herself – crying.

She stood in front of the BSHCI, her pantsuit rumpled and ill-fitting, her knees awkwardly bent from her short heels. One arm clasped an overflowing folder while she pressed the back of her other hand against one eye, reminiscent of a Renaissance martyr. The photo was taken from a distance, but with a lens so powerful the tears were plain to see, shining bright on her red, freckled cheeks. Clarice’s initial confusion shifted to horror when she spotted the semi-transparent Tattlecrime watermark. Scrolling down with a shaky thumb, she was confronted with the headline ‘SEE ME AFTER CLASS: FBI SCHOOLGIRL BROKEN BY THE CANNIBAL?’ A glance at the accompanying article highlighted the key words, told her all she needed to know about the tone: investigation, cooperation, tax dollars. Rookie.

 _Girl_.

She only became aware of Barney reading over her shoulder when he spoke.

‘Lounds still up to her tricks?’

‘Where was she hiding?’ Clarice thought out loud, suppressing the mortified scream building up in the pit of her stomach. She looked from her phone to the parking lot outside, through the hospital’s glass doors. It would have been easy to take a photo from inside a car, behind a tree, crouching beside a van.

‘Shit,’ she hissed, scrolling back and forth between the image and the article. The screen became dark and the phone buzzed to the rhythm of The Clash’s _Somebody got Murdered_ , which she and Ardelia had picked as the perfect ringtone for their boss at the end of boozy night in. It was less funny now.

Clarice’s thumb hovered over the “reject” button before grudgingly accepting the call.

‘You on your way back to Quantico?’ Jack thundered without preamble.

‘Just about to leave, sir,’ she raised a hand to Barney in a silent goodbye and rushed out of the hospital. ‘I don’t know how –‘

‘Good, change of plans. I’m sending you an address and I want you to meet us there for a briefing before we head on to Tennessee, alright?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Clarice said, sitting in the driver’s seat just as coordinates flashed up on the car’s GPS screen. Her heart hammered in her throat, but differently than moments ago. ‘’scuse me, Mr Crawford – this ain’t ‘bout the article, right?’

‘The article?’ he grunted. ‘I don’t waste my time on Freddie Lounds’ muckraking and I advise you do the same.’

‘I will, sir,’ Clarice’s relief swelled and deflated in record time. If it wasn’t about the article, she knew what was coming. ‘We get another gift from Bill?’

A sigh at the other end of the line. Then, Jack spoke again, voice tinged with cynicism:

‘You wanna see a dead body?’

 

\---

 

Precious purred against his leg as he unpacked the shopping bags. Smiling, Jame Gumb took the packet of treats and tore off the top, tossing it aside, where it landed on the carpet of trash permanently lining the floor. He picked up his fluffy white cat and held her in the crook of his arm, feeding her the chicken-flavoured morsels one by one and enjoying the tickle of her rough tongue on his fingertips.

‘Has our pet been good today?’ Jame murmured into Precious’s fuzzy head. She wagged her tail and squirmed, which he took as the signal to gently let her down. The ground was cluttered and she was pushing twenty, so he avoided dropping her when he could, fearful of an injury.

Precious toddled towards the basement, turning to stare expectantly at her person.

‘Hang on just a sec.’

With his foot, Jame nudged the empty microwave meal boxes away from the front of the fridge and quickly stocked it with his new groceries. Only one item remained in the flimsy plastic bag: a large bottle of high-end body lotion. He flipped open the top and inhaled deeply.

Roses.

Roses were her favourite. Every inch of her had reeked of it until the day she died.

Jame closed the bottle, kicked off his heavy work boots, and finally unlocked the door to the basement, following his cat down the steps. All he heard was the persistent humming of pipes and cables and the distant, erratic fluttering of his babies’ wings. He was glad. For the past few days, he’d been greeted with loud, screaming sobs. After the threats stopped working, he’d had to poke a nozzle through the peep-hole of the heavy steel door and spray her as hard as the hose would go to get any peace. Seems like it had finally sunk in.

This area of the house was the only one free of the garbage piled high everywhere else. Jame made a concerted effort to keep it tidy, because it was _his_ den. Mama had the run of the rest of the house. It was only fair he be allowed a place of his own.

Precious followed him as he went through the workshop and to the Kennel. He plonked himself down on the stool and pulled back the door’s sliding section.

Catherine sat against the far wall with her knees pulled up to her chest, feet turned inward to hide her sex. She was naked save for an oversized black t-shirt that clung to her body, still not quite dry from yesterday’s hosing down. The musty humidity permeating the basement meant nothing dried right, but she preferred the mild discomfort of a damp shirt to the terror of full nudity. The water had washed away most of her makeup, but black clumps of mascara stubbornly persisted in her matted eyelashes, which were now spread wide as she watched Jame’s face appear. She’d found that she could slip the viewing window open from her side, if she strained hard against the collar chaining her to the floor, but she couldn’t close it back up and he had sprayed her with freezing water when he’d found it that way. For now, she’d given up. Her throat was raspy from hours of screaming and nothing had come of it.

Jame smiled.

‘Mornin’.’

‘Hi,’ she replied. It was easier than risking punishment.

‘Y’know, you’re gonna catch a chill in that there soakin’ shirt.’

Catherine squeezed her knees tighter. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

He shrugged and ducked out of view with a mumbled ‘a’ight,’ then a pink object flew in from the window, landing a few feet away. A bottle of lotion. She wrinkled her nose. What the fuck?

Jame reappeared and motioned towards it.

‘Give y’self a rubdown wi’that.’

‘I’m fine,’ she repeated. ‘Thanks.’

‘I ain’t askin’. Take off th’shirt and put on th’stuff.’

Catherine felt a nauseating itch in her throat. ‘I don’t want to.’

His smile was gone in a blink. ‘I. Ain’t. Askin’.’

‘Why do you want me to do this?’ her voice cracked on “this” and she knew tears would soon follow. ‘Can – can you look away? Turn around?’

‘I gotta see you’re doin’ it right,’ he stated coldly.

‘But –‘

A loud meow trilled from behind Jame and Catherine gasped, scrambling to stand.

‘You’ve got a cat? I’ve got a cat, mister, a – a big stripy orange cat called Madrigal, ‘cause,’ she giggled, feeling the rivulets spill down her cheeks, ‘’cause his meow’s all weird and sing-song-y, y’know? We call him Mad –‘

The words died on her lips when he pulled the nozzle into the window.

‘You’re gonna do what I tell you.’ He eased his hand into the room, giving him better control over the jet. ‘You’re gonna put the lotion,’ a gesture to the bottle, ‘on your skin, or you’re getting the hose, and then I’m gonna come in there and do it m’self.’

Neither moved. Then he fired a torrent straight into her face.

She yelped and duck out of the way, her arms shot down to grasp the edge of the t-shirt and soon her world was dark as she pulled the it off. She could see the bare, shining lightbulb above through the woven thread of the cloth over her face. She could have been down there days or weeks. She didn’t know.

‘Now,’ she heard him say as she tossed the garment aside, threading it around the chain of her collar, ‘was that so fuckin’ hard?’


	6. Rendang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a close and personal encounter with Buffalo Bill’s latest victim, Clarice seeks out an intimidating couple for advice on Will Graham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’ll be happy to know there’s some more gay people in this chapter because we’ve been falling behind in that department.

You never forget your first.

Clarice didn’t like thinking of her father, small and supine in his best suit. Mercifully too short to see him, she’d hovered near the coffin while acquaintances gave their condolences, staring at her shoes and picking at the hem of her dress, until a well-intentioned officer from her father’s squadron lifted her up so she could kiss her daddy goodbye. The withered body cradled in that simple wooden box didn’t look anything like the strong, colourful man she loved, and the coldness of his skin stuck to her lips for the rest of the day, beyond the funeral and into the evening, when her mother crept into bed with her and held her and cried and cried.

Instead, Clarice considered her first to have taken place on her third day as a member of the Charlottesville Police Department. Reports of a strange noise in a residential area prompted a routine welfare check that turned sour when Clarice and her partner found the resident slumped over in the bathtub, face sprayed halfway across the wall, courtesy of an off-centre shotgun blast to the mouth. A human head turned burger meat. The smell was the same she’d gotten used to over years of slaughtering seasons at Uncle Gene’s farm, which made the experience of calmly radioing for assistance while her partner puked his guts out on the front lawn all the more surreal.

In her three years at the CPD, she saw a lot of dead bodies and miscellaneous horrors besides. The projections of mutilated corpses on the walls of the FBI Academy lecture hall had barely made her flinch.

It surprised her, then, to find herself truly nauseous as she stared down at Buffalo Bill’s latest victim.

Forensics were hard at work by the time Jack and Clarice arrived. Brian Zeller knelt on the soft ground to photograph the cadaver, which had washed up on the shore face-up. Clarice took in the discoloured, loose skin, the deflated breasts, the weeds clinging to her body, caught between her legs like a grotesque loincloth. She caught the eyes of two local officers who quickly looked away, and she was acutely aware of the fact that she was the only woman on the scene.

After a quick update on the situation, Clarice watched Brian turn the body over and flinched when the smell slammed into her.

The scent hadn’t been the best to begin with, but placing the corpse on its back revealed a massive expanse of flayed skin, further damaged by putrefaction. Animals feeding on her flesh had bored a hole into her rotting abdomen, from which the odour of decay emanated strong enough to practically set nose hairs alight.

Several policemen retched and Brian scuttled back, covering his nose and mouth with his arm.

‘Yep,’ he’d said, muffled, ‘we’re gonna need the Vicks for this one.’

Even now, several hours later, in a sterile environment with a cleaned-up body, they all wore paper masks doused in peppermint oil. Jimmy traced the edge of the skinned area with a gloved finger.

‘You know why they call him Buffalo Bill?’

Clarice nodded. ‘’cause he likes to skin his humps.’

‘Keepin’ it classy,’ Brian sneered.

‘It’s him for sure,’ Jimmy continued. ‘Starved for a couple days, skinned, dumped in the Mississippi.’ A short pause. ‘Post-mortem penetration.’

‘And we found this,’ Brian interjected, handing Jack a clear Ziploc bag containing pieces of what looked like a tiny wasp’s nest. Jack peered at it carefully before handing it to Clarice.

‘Where was it?’ he asked.

‘Lodged in the throat. It’s an ootheca, a mantis egg case.’

‘Like a prayin’ mantis?’ said Clarice.

‘Yep. Broke when we took it out, but it was in pretty good shape at first, given where it was.’

‘Could it have gone in while she was in the river?’

Jimmy spoke before Brian could, with obvious excitement. ‘It was too far in for that, and get this: it’s an H. bicornis, an orchid mantis ootheca.’ He tapped on his phone and pulled up a photo of the animal in question, an odd pink and white creature whose appendages looked like dainty petals. ‘They’re only native to southeast Asia. No way it ended up in there by accident.’

Brian rolled his eyes. ‘Jimmy’s happy ‘cause he got to Skype his bug pals from beekeeping.’

‘Bees and mantes aren’t bugs, Brian,’ Jimmy said delicately, ‘they’re insects.’

‘Oh my God.’

Jack cleared his throat. ‘Well, did Price’s _insect_ friends give you any useful info?’

‘We’re contacting businesses and importers for a list of clients, but I wouldn’t bank on it. More people out there collecting _bugs_ than you’d think,’ Brian pointedly glanced at Jimmy, ‘and that’s not counting the shows and the shops where you can buy them in person –‘

‘How do you know so much about insect collecting?’ said Jimmy.

‘Well, I’m guessing it’s like with reptiles –‘

‘He judges me for my hobby when he’s got his little lizard family –‘

‘ _Reptiles_ –‘

‘We know if she was alive when he put it in?’ Clarice interrupted.

Brian and Jimmy had the decency to look embarrassed. Brian took it upon himself to answer.

‘Uh, the tissue’s deteriorated a lot. It’s possible, but if he did, she was barely living. Muscles in the throat would’ve snapped it to bits.’

‘And why a mantis?’ She looked at Jimmy now. ‘An orchid mantis, that right?’

He nodded. ‘Beautiful species. They use their features to blend in with their surroundings, but they’re surprisingly feisty, too. One of the few insects that protects its eggs. They’re famous for their sexual cannibalism and the dominance of their females. Judging by Bill’s victims, I’d say that’s especially significant. Guy’s got a bone to pick with women.’

‘You think he’s eating their skin?’ asked Jack.

‘Could be. Females eat the male’s head when they breed. Might be some sort of twisted revenge message,’ said Jimmy.

‘Sexual cannibalism,’ Brian muttered. ‘Wish I could say _that_ was a first.’

Clarice bit her lip. ‘I don’t think he’s eatin’ ‘em. Don’t fit. Why just the skin? If he was goin’ for a mantis theme, he’d be cuttin’ out chunks, decapitatin’ ‘em. Not just flayin’ ‘em.’

‘Think he’s using the skin for something else?’ said Jack.

‘Making his own Nazi lampshades?’ Jimmy quipped.

Clarice stepped closer to the body, ignoring the protest from her sinuses. ‘We know Bill’s male, in pretty good shape, likely white. Hates women – younger, overweight. Background ‘n occupation don’t seem to matter. Mantis connection points t’issues with strong women. Maybe an ex, maybe some girl who wouldn’ give ‘im the time a’day, but for somethin’ this fucked up? I bet mommy issues. Big time.’

‘So we’ve narrowed it down to the _rare_ profile of: white sadist who didn’t get hugged enough as a kid,’ Jack summarised with a sigh.

‘Or who got hugged too much,’ Brian mumbled.

‘I wanna talk to Lecter again.’

The men glanced from Clarice to each other. Every passing second pressed down on Clarice’s heart, made her slightly more nauseous. Finally, Jack approached her.

‘Starling –‘

‘Clarice. Please.’

A pause.

‘Clarice,’ Jack continued, ‘Tattlecrime’s sniffed out a story. Hannibal Lecter’s still their best-seller by far. You’ve been featured on the homepage and they’ve spitballed about the Buffalo Bill investigation. If Freddie Lounds can connect the dots, so can _Bill_. You’ll be vulnerable.’

‘It’s my job –‘

‘And it’s _my_ job to keep you as safe as I can. You’re a trainee. I’m your supervisor. We’re not sending you to the BSHCI again.’

‘But he knows something!’ Clarice exclaimed, stepping in front of her boss. He was almost a foot taller and he glared down at her with raised eyebrows, but she stood resolute. ‘He might even know who the killer is –‘

‘Where’s your proof?’

‘The things he said, the _head_ –‘

‘He gave you a poem. You found the clue. For all we know, it was a coincidence. There’s a thousand ways you could have interpreted his little gesture.’

‘Sir, with all due respect –‘

‘Besides,’ Jack said loudly. ‘You _told_ me he’s not interested in cooperating with us. There’s not point having you go to Baltimore just to get the silent treatment.’

Clarice instantly regretted complaining on their drive to Tennessee. It would have been simple enough to be evasive in the written report if she’d given herself time to cool off, but now she was going to lose out on potentially vital information, all because Lecter liked playing games and riling people up and making unreasonable –

Demands.

She hadn’t told Jack. About Hannibal’s agreement to help if he and Will were moved to the same prison.

Alright.

‘Fine,’ she crossed her arms. ‘Let me talk to Will Graham.’

Jack blinked. ‘What?’

‘If Lecter knows more than he’s lettin’ on, he’ll’ve told Graham. They were on the run when th’head came up as an issue they needed t’solve. Graham would’ve known.’

The discomfort was clear on Jack’s face. Brian and Jimmy studiously went about clearing up and cataloguing Jane Doe, eager not to get involved.

‘Tattlecrime won’t be stakin’ out _his_ facility, and I’ll be careful. Incognito. I know it’ll help the case. I don’t wanna have t’deal with anymore a’ these –‘ she gestured to the corpse, ‘- than I _have_ to, and I know you don’t either. Please. Sir.’

Clarice figured Jack was used to everyone – especially trainees, and _especially_ female trainees – bending under his hard gaze, and for once, she was almost glad for this expectation, because her unflinching resolve seemed to be seriously throwing him off. This was their best (and, honestly, their only) lead.

Jack’s sigh visibly deflated him.

‘Okay. On one condition.’

Clarice tried hard to hide her excitement. ‘Yeah, Mr Crawford, sir?’

‘I want you to talk to somebody.’

 

\---

 

‘Special Agent Clarice Starling,’ she enunciated. ‘FBI.’

The intercom crackled, buzzed, and cut out. The ornate metal gates ahead silently swung open, revealing a pale grey gravel road flanked by thick greenery, remarkably like the entrance to a storybook labyrinth. For a while, all she saw were tall trees and colourful bushes, until a final bend revealed a wide expanse of grass and the towering majesty of the Verger estate.

Margo and Alana Verger-Bloom had only been back in the United States a few years, after it became apparent that Hannibal Lecter’s new abode was a secure one. The Verger farm and home had never been truly abandoned while the family lived abroad, but it had become something of a ghost house over a near-decade of barebones staff maintenance. Their return was marked by an extravagant photo-shoot in _People_ , detailing the Verger-Bloom’s European exploits and plans for the future. Just as they had in the pictures, the grounds bustled with life: landscapers trimmed hedges, boys led horses to the stables, and a huge pack of dogs ran to bark around Clarice’s car. She almost did a double-take when she slowed to park before the manor’s grand entrance and spotted _peacocks_ wandering around the fountain.

The dogs wasted no time, bustling around her legs and competing to jump up at her. She grinned. Although she was wearing her smart black suit – freshly tailored – it had been way too long since she’d seen a friendly mutt off its leash, so she crouched down and set about petting as many furry heads as she could. The variety of breeds was surprising. Instead of the pedigree guards or toy dogs she would have expected, there were scruffy puppies and old hounds of all shapes and sizes.

One aged but eager Golden Retriever mix looked remarkably like Stimpy, the pup Uncle Gene had got her when she first moved in with him. Clarice would look for him as soon as she got home from school and almost always find him hiding out in the barn. She’d climb up on a haystack and curl up around him, tucking him between her bent knees and her stomach, and mumble kind words while she stroked the soft fur covering his shaking body. Gene got Stimpy cheap off Jenny’s folks, who ran a puppymill out of their backyard, and often, Jenny herself would join them to whisper her apologies, cheek pressed against Stimpy’s little chest to hear his beating heart.

‘I see you’ve met the welcome committee.’

Clarice looked up. A dark-haired woman was watching her from the manor’s open door, beautiful in jeans and a scarlet sweater that looked more expensive than Clarice’s whole wardrobe.

She tore herself away from the dogs with difficulty and patted off the dust from dozens of dirty paws. ‘Y’know, in Quantico, they taught us to turn tail and run if we pulled up t’someone’s house ‘n a pack a’ dogs came speedin’ our way.’

‘Good to know academic standards are still high,’ the brunette said with a smile. ‘Alana.’

‘Clarice Starling,’ she replied, shaking Alana’s hand. Her palms felt as soft as a child’s, and her nails were painted the same red shade as her lips. Clarice blushed.

‘Pleased to meet you. Come in. Did you find it okay?’

To Clarice’s surprise, Alana casually let the dogs follow them inside. The floors were polished to a mirror-finish, and though the dogs knew to walk mostly on the carpet, it still jabbed at Clarice’s sense of propriety. While it had never felt particularly impoverished, Uncle Gene’s farm was a trash-heap compared to this place, and he’d always expressly forbidden animals in the house under threat of a switchin’. Her cheek tingled with the memory of the one time she’d tried to smuggle Stimpy into her room – and the ensuing whack across her face.

They reached the spacious sitting room, where a tray of hot tea was waiting for them on the black Noguchi coffee table. The décor was tastefully eclectic, a mix of antiques and sleek designer furniture. One of the sitting room walls was covered in pictures of Alana, another gorgeous woman Clarice knew to be Margo, and a beautiful little boy, along with a number of photographs of older people who bore resemblance to Alana. No trace of the extended Verger clan.

The women sat down across from each other, with the dogs settling on the floor or jumping up to lie next to Alana. Clarice gestured to the pictures. ‘That your son?’

‘Yeah, Morgan. He’s at school right now.’

‘He’s a cutie.’

Alana finished pouring the tea and sat back comfortably on the leather sofa, scratching behind one of the dogs’ ears. ‘Margo might join us later. She’s out back riding.’

‘Great. Be nice to meet ‘er.’

Growing up in Fuck-You, West Virginia, Clarice had often idly fantasized about living in a fairy-tale castle with Jenny as her Queen (could two girls be queens together? Could a girl be king?), and they’d live happy and safe and everything would be clean and wonderful. Now, she was in the presence of a woman who’d basically achieved that childhood dream. Meanwhile, Clarice was there to dredge up unpleasant memories of insane killers. It felt surreal, and, quite frankly, intrusive.

Anyway.

She clasped her hands together, coughed. ‘I take it Mr Crawford’s been in touch?’

‘He has. I’m supposed to tell you about Will Graham before you speak to him about an undisclosed investigation, one that I strongly suspect to be about Buffalo Bill. Right?’

‘I’m not at liberty to discuss that, ma’am,’ Clarice replied, in a tone that said “yes, absolutely.”

‘Of course.’ Alana took a sip of her tea. ‘I want to help. I really do. But I’m not sure how well I know… this Will.’

‘ _This_ Will?’

‘The Will who spent years on the run from Interpol by Hannibal Lecter’s side. The Will who’s been incarcerated for seven years. That Will.’

‘Tell me about the Will you do know.’

Alana’s manicured nails stopped their ministrations on the dog’s head for a second, then resumed. ‘Half the dogs here are his. They were going to be split up, sent to shelters. Some people wanted them put down, said they might have tasted human flesh. They’d already been through so much. It didn’t seem fair.’

The dog sighed happily and shifted its head into her lap. Clarice could make out a nametag that read “Winston.”

‘Will collected strays. Gave them a home. I think he stopped because he found his own… with Hannibal.’ She paused. ‘You’ve met him?’

‘Unfortunately.’

Alana laughed. ‘God, you don’t know the half of it. He’s perceptive, isn’t he? Crazy perceptive. That’s something he’s got in common with Will. Talk to him for a minute and he’ll know your whole life story. What _is_ your life story, Agent Starling?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Because – well, three kinds of people join the FBI. Narcissists, justice fetishists, and people who don’t quite fit in anywhere else. Who want to belong to something important. You don’t strike me as a narcissist.’

Clarice quirked her eyebrows. ‘Lil bit a’B, lil bit a’C.’

‘And _see_ is what you’ll have to do. Relate to Will. Understand him. Don’t patronize – never patronize. He’s not weak, but after all this time alone, he’ll be needy. You can use that.’

‘Saw the article ‘bout his self-harm.’

The faraway sound of a door slamming prompted Alana to glance out of the window. Her hand had come to a rest on Winston’s body, rising and falling with his breaths.

‘When left cooped up without anything to do, animals will often turn to auto-mutilation. People are the same.’

Jack had given Clarice a brief history of Alana’s dealings with the FBI, of her troubled relationships with Hannibal and Will. In her eyes, Clarice saw hollow sadness, a bitter kind of regret. How often did she think about what could have been? Tucking in her son, slipping under the covers with her wife, meeting a patient at her practice, did she ever feel… responsible?

‘My father was a police officer,’ Clarice said. ‘He believed in justice. Objective, absolute justice. I can’t in all good faith say the same, but I have my own convictions, and I know he’d’ve been proud a’ me.’ She smiled. ‘And if joinin’ the Feds gets me outta West Virginia, well, it’s a nice bonus.’

‘To escape to _Quantico_?’

‘Hey, compared to Fishers Crossin’, Quantico’s downright cosmopolitan.’

A door creaked open and the sharp sound of clacking heels filled the space. Through the arch connecting the sitting room to the rest of the house came a coolly beautiful woman in bespoke cream and burgundy riding gear. Her knee high boots stomped the ground, tracking mud inside as she typed on her phone. Alana threw her head back without bothering to properly turn around.

‘Really? You can’t even change into your slippers? We just had the floors re-varnished.’

‘I’ll take your concern seriously when you stop letting the dogs scratch the place to hell.’ Her voice was as frosty as her looks, but she put her free hand on Alana’s shoulder and kneaded it affectionately. Her pale eyes surveyed Clarice. ‘Agent Starling.’

‘Yes, Clarice Starling,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Pleasure, Ms Verger.’

‘Thanks for coming all the way out here. How’s the interview going?’

‘I –‘

‘We’ve only just started,’ Alana interrupted, rising too. ‘And since we’re all up, we can move this to the kitchen. Marisa’s tea is lovely, but I could use a beer. Agent Starling?’

‘I shouldn’t –‘

‘We won’t tell Jack.’ Alana clicked her tongue to rouse the dogs and started down the hallway. ‘I brew my own. It’s _very_ niche.’

‘It’s _very_ nice,’ Margo supplied. ‘She’s had requests from _Erinna_.’

‘When lesbian bars want to stock your brew, you know you’ve made it.’

Clarice couldn’t hold back a smirk. ‘Well, with a recommendation like that, I can’t rightly refuse.’

On the way to the kitchen, Clarice discreetly gawked at the lavish furniture, the wood panelling, the striking art adorning the walls. The tough old butches Uncle Gene sneered at when they stopped in Sutton or Flatwoods for the day had been Clarice’s role models, the first figures who seemed to hear her heart’s desperate wails and sing back. Her youth in West Virginia, fumbles with Jenny in Gene’s barn, the two hour round trips to Charleston so she could hang around the closest gay bar and hope no one would notice she was only sixteen – it was a different world from that of these women, with their tasteful female nudes and their cashmere and coordinated lipstick. She should be comfortable with these women, at home.

And yet.

Clarice leaned against the brass countertop and sipped her drink. The beer was cool and smooth, with a distinctive citrusy aroma. Alana smiled when Clarice further remarked on the hint of honey.

‘We’ve got a connoisseur, huh?’

‘I’m Appalachian. Our blood’s 100 proof.’ Clarice took another swig. ‘Real good, Ms Bloom. I can see why you’re in demand.’

‘After all this is over, you should come to our Christmas party. I’ve got a special batch in the works.’

‘Hopefully you can talk about happier things,’ said Margo, not making eye contact.

‘Bring your girlfriend,’ Alana added.

Clarice blushed. Again.

‘’ppreciate it. God willin’, we’ll crack it before the New Year.’ She sighed. ‘I got a lot ridin’ on this visit to Will Graham. I hope he’ll realize what’s at stake. We’ve gotta find that sonuvabitch before he hurts another girl – if he ain’t already.’

With that, she tossed back the remains of her drink and put the empty bottle down. Margo and Alana didn’t reply. The dogs that had followed them sat by expectantly, hoping for a treat from the fridge. Alana absently patted a dog whose collar read “Peanut Butter.”

‘I… visited Will, after the trial. I thought it might give me some sort of… closure.’ She met Clarice’s gaze. Her voice and face were carefully neutral, but Clarice could see the worried creases on the corners of her mouth. ‘We sat across from each other with bars between us and in his eyes, there was… nothing. We tried to make small talk, but what do you say? There’s no Hallmark card for that.’ Alana laughed humourlessly. Margo watched her, concern obvious in her elegant features. ‘I was there twenty, thirty minutes, but there was no point. So I got up, and he thanked me for coming, and I left. A couple of days later, I got a letter from the Marion Correctional Centre. I gave them permission to let him write to me – I figured, hey, maybe it’ll help. I opened it, and it was written in soft pencil, the quasi-crayons they give prisoners like him, and all it said was “I miss him.” That was five years ago.’

Peanut Butter trotted over to Clarice and pawed at her leg, panting happily when Clarice distractedly ruffled her neck.

Alana pressed her lips together. ‘Talk to him. Provoke him. Maybe this case will remind him of… who he is.’

‘And who’s that?’

‘ _A good man_.’

There was heartache in her voice, and Clarice saw that beyond the cynicism and the strength and the luxury, Alana was just a person full of grief for a dear lost friend, and Margo was just a person who didn’t know how to make the pain go away. And Clarice felt absurd for having been intimidated.

‘I’ll do my best, Ms Bloom,’ she said. ‘And I hope he will, too.’


	7. Durian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jame's nymphs hatch. Will gets his first visitor in a long time.

The papery cocoon trembled on its stick. Jame leaned in eagerly. After a few muffled crunches, the first pale head popped out of the ootheca, followed by one more, and another, until there were ten, forty, eighty little bodies writhing into the world. Once freed, each nymph would flex its scythe-like front legs, maybe stretch its useless, juvenile wings, and scuttle down to join the wriggling, growing agglomeration of its siblings dangling off the bottom of the egg case. This scene of birth soon became a frenzied battle as the mantes attacked each other, driven by hunger and instinct, ruthlessly tearing their weaker brothers and sisters to pieces to feast on their flesh.

From experience, Jame knew only five or six of the hundreds hatched would survive. As he watched the more powerful females shred the smaller babies, he hoped at least one of the survivors would be male. He was starting to run low, and he’d always felt a sense of kinship with them. Not that he disliked the females – he loved their champagne-pink eyes, the broad petals that sprouted from their legs, even the way they towered over their pathetic mates, disdainfully waiting for insemination so they could seize his body and plunge their fangs into his head.

Jame ground the heel of his palm into his crotch, punishing his growing erection. It was hard not to sympathise with the males, feeble and disposable. He licked his lips.

It would take a few hours for the nymphs to battle it out. He had to go to work soon. Tenderly, he transferred the cup containing the ootheca and squirming babies into a large glass tank and turned on the heat lamp above it.

The insect nursery had two doors, one leading to the workshop, the other to the basement hub containing the washer and drier and the stairs leading to the surface. He stepped towards the laundry room, hesitated, glanced back at the other door. It wouldn’t hurt to look. He went into the workshop, holding the door open for Precious to follow, and walked straight to the back of the room, to open the sliding hatch of the metal door and peer into the cell.

Catherine was huddled in a corner, sleeping in the foetal position. Her damp, plump body shivered with each breath. Her soft snores were nothing like the cacophony Mama was capable of. Jame would hear her, sleeping out on the porch every summer, gurgling as the air entered her body – ravaged by brown lung from a life in the cotton mills. She’d worked herself to the bone to keep him and that damn cat fed and groomed. All she wanted in return was love. That wasn’t asking much, was it?

Silently, Jame watched Catherine sleep for a full ten minutes, turning thoughts of Mama over in his head, then shut the hatch. He trailed a finger over the handles of the tools lining the walls, and walked to his room.

The television droned in the background while he pulled on his overalls. Precious circled his legs and pressed her face against his boots until he finished tying his laces and stroked her head, smiling at her purr.

Jame grabbed the remote to switch off the TV, paused when Catherine’s face flashed up on the screen. The image changed to a smartly-dressed older woman speaking directly to the camera, eyes shiny with tears, and he killed the broadcast before he could find out anything about his captive’s life, family, friends. He didn’t want to know. That wasn’t how it worked. These weren’t people. They were donors.

Parts.

‘Won’t change nothin’,’ he muttered, shrugging on his jacket. He glanced at the figure in the bed and tenderly tucked a lock of hair behind its ear. As usual, a few strands stuck in the stitches connecting its scalp to its neck, and he had to carefully pick them out, wary of ripping any off. ‘Huh, Mama?’

The figure’s glass eyes stared lifelessly ahead.

 

\---

 

They studied each other for a long time.

Where Hannibal’s frame had remained largely the same, diminishing only slightly, Will Graham was much thinner than a man his age should be. Dry lips, hollow cheeks, and close-cropped hair marred his handsome features, made him look like an extra in a famine docu-drama. He fidgeted with the stark white bandages wrapped around one wrist, sliding a fingernail between cotton and skin and flicking it. The scar on his throat was as raw and ugly as it had been on TV, during the trial. The faint pink lines on his forehead and face were barely noticeable compared to it.

Apart from the picking, he seemed calm, though his avoidance of her gaze gave the distinct impression of something being _off._

‘Read your book,’ Clarice said. Will looked up, surprised. ‘ _On Dating Time of Death Through the Insects on the Body_. It’s good. Clear.’

‘Thanks.’ Will’s voice was croaky with disuse. ‘You, Alana, and Jack makes three readers. Not bad.’

‘No Lecter?’

Will’s fingers stilled on his wrist. A small grin spread on his face. Cynical. Proud.

‘I don’t think he needs me to teach him about that sort of thing.’

‘Guess not.’

His grin faded to a tired smile, and he nodded at her hands. They were small, but sinewy and strong like a man’s, riddled with tiny pale scars and scratches. Clarice’s short fingernails gleamed with a thick coat of clear polish, a singular feminine touch she’d adopted after cracking a nail to the bed one too many times. The lacquer strengthened them enough to justify the hassle of applying it, and she found it soothing to stroke the smooth surface of her thumbnail with the pad of her index finger.

‘You like working with your hands?’ Will asked.

‘Grew up on a farm, never lost the habit. Can’t fix your laptop, but if y’need cattle rustled or a chair fixed, I’m your gal. Best whittler this side the Mississippi too, ‘ccordin’ to my uncle. Then again, he didn’t know too many folks weren’t drunks or junkies, so the bar was pretty low.’

‘You’ve got me feeling nostalgic for my backwater.’

‘Figured. Had a gander at your file. Your daddy teach you to fix boats, right?’

‘It’s a useful skill in Louisiana.’

‘My uncle taught me to fix cars. Useful skill in West Virginia.’

‘Land and sea. We could conquer the world.’

‘Not sure I’d be a great ruler.’ Clarice crossed her legs. ‘Poor role models as a kid, anger issues, the whole package. Ain’t conducive t’stable leadership.’

‘Absent parents?’

She wasn’t meant to open up to people like Will, but with his perception skills, she knew he’d be able to tell right away if she tried bullshitting him. Besides, unlike with Hannibal, talking to Will Graham was easy, felt familiar. Somehow safe.

How many people had been lured in by his nervous, humble demeanour, straight into the wolf’s den? It was impossible to even hazard a guess: neither half of the duo had so much as hinted at the true extent of their crimes. In fact, they’d been so fastidious about cleaning up that it had been difficult to pin more than one post-escape murder on them with any degree of certainty – that of the young woman found in their fridge. Clarice suspected that a good number of unrelated charges had been attributed to them to exacerbate the accusations, sensationalise the story, and guarantee the fullest punishment the law could dole out.

Not that those erroneous charges even skimmed the surface of their true body count.

Clarice smiled thinly.

‘If y’count “dead” as absent, then sure. Well, dead daddy, crazy mama. Anythin’ nostalgic ‘bout that?’

‘Something tells me you already know the answer.’

She’d perused her copy of Will Graham’s FBI file like a literary classic, jotting down notes in the margins and underlining salient points. More than once, a detail sprung up that felt uncomfortably close to her own life – growing up broke and misunderstood in Hicksville with a well-meaning father figures who did more harm than good, dreaming big and studying hard in the midst of uncompromising police culture. Motherless. Though at least Clarice’s had been around for the first seven years of her life.

Decades had gone by since Clarice was dropped off at Uncle Gene’s farm with nothing but a backpack and the trauma of her mother’s suicide. Memories of her were in scents and textures rather than images. Lemon cake, silk slips, peroxide. Alcohol, sour milk, tranquilisers crushed under bare feet. Will’s father was a drinker too, she knew, but functional.

‘Seems we’ve got lots in common,’ Clarice said.

‘Wanna go out sometime?’

‘I think we’ve got somethin’ else in common that’d make romance a fool’s errand.’

Will breathed out a chuckle, and for the first time, his eyes met hers. ‘I’m guessing you’re not here on a social call.’

‘You’re right.’ She passed Will the file through the bars. ‘Lookin’ to find a killer folks call Buffalo Bill. Eight girls found floatin’ down the Tennessee River, badly mutilated.’

‘Buffalo Bill?’ Will asked, incredulous.

‘Give ‘em points for creativity.’

Slowly, he skimmed the pages, pausing to study the pictures.

‘Heimlich in Harvard does the same thing I do, the same kind of profiling. Why does Jack want to know what _I_ think?’

‘Weren’t his idea. I requested this meetin’ ‘cause I’ve reached a dead end with Lecter, ‘n I’m not ashamed t’say I need your help.’

‘You’ve spoken to Hannibal?’

‘Mr Crawford figured he might consult on the case, help out a lil’, but instead he gave us a tip that led straight to one a’ Bill’s victims. Had t’break into your house, by the way. Beg pardon.’

Will went from curiosity to shock. ‘There was a _body_ in my house?’

His tone gave Clarice pause. Was he faking it? How could he not know?

‘A head. In a jar. Lecter didn’t put it there, timeline don’t fit, but it sure seems he knows more ‘n he’s willin’ t’tell. He gave us jus’ enough t’whet our appetite, an’ now he’s holdin’ back.’

‘He’s bored.’

Clarice considered telling him about Hannibal’s demands, but decided against it. It wasn’t worth risking giving him ideas.

‘I’m sure. But we ain’t thrilled ‘bout twiddlin’ our thumbs while a maniac carries on a killin’ spree. Y’understand, right? You’ve been where I am. I don’t want any more girls dyin’. Do you?’

Will’s gaze dropped, and his fingers once again found the edge of the bandage. Pick, pick, pick.

It took him a while to speak.

‘Maybe y’do.’

‘ _No_.’

A pause.

‘People ask how he could have changed me so much.’ His tone was measured, thoughtful. ‘How I could be so weak. Hopeless. But Hannibal changed too. Because of me. For me. Look at our kills, compare them to his past victims. We were careful, meticulous. We took care of scum. We… cleansed.’

‘You sayin’ you didn’t kill innocent people?’

‘I can’t say that. I’m not going to argue semantics or philosophy, dictate who is or isn’t innocent, pretend we never had to deal with witnesses, people who were at the wrong place at the wrong time. What I’m saying is that Hannibal – he accommodated his worldview to me. He found a way for us both to see beauty, cherish it, and… do good at the same time.’

‘Who’re you t’make God’s decisions?’ Clarice retorted.

‘What god?’ Will sounded derisive for the first time, spoke louder now. ‘The god who killed your father? The god who demands sacrifices in his name? The god who created Hannibal? What do our laws matter to that god?’

‘You sound jus’ like him.’

‘Maybe he sounds like me.’

Clarice frowned, unsure how to respond. Will spoke calmly, but with the assurance of a man stating simple facts:

‘We’ve changed each other. I know every inch of him, I’ve seen him stripped bare of all defences. I love him. And I _know_ that he loves me.’

Underneath her suit, Clarice felt her body heat up, flushing the skin of her chest, up her pale throat, mottling her cheeks an uneven pink. The intensity of his words startled her, made her remember first meeting Ardelia, of how instantly transfixed she’d been by her new roommate’s laughing eyes, her sharp tongue, her dark velvety skin. She’d blushed beet red then, too, and Ardelia must have noticed. Not long after that, they’d limped into their dorm after a gruelling physical lesson, swamped with sweat and stained with grass and mud, and a playful back-and-forth about who got first dibs in the shower ended with Ardelia picking a twig off Clarice’s sweater, trailing a hand over her hammering heart, and proposing they go in together.

In just a little over a week, they were going to graduate and move out of the Academy into an apartment in Annandale. Over a short time, they’d become friends, complementary in mind and body and dreams. But any thought of a future together, of applying the word _“love_ ” to their relationship – it brought back the feeling of strong arms around her waist, of hidden kisses between parked trucks, of Jenny screaming and screaming and screaming.

Will closed the file and passed it back to Clarice.

‘Hannibal doesn’t seek out other killers. He’s interested in their minds, of course, but it would’ve been a completely unnecessary risk. A hassle.’

‘He’s not lonely ‘nymore.’ Clarice agreed, tucking the file back into her briefcase. ‘Well, he wasn’t when ya’ll were together. Might be now.’

‘He isn’t.’ Will said decisively. He lifted a skinny arm and tapped his temple. ‘When you free your mind, you never are, not really.’

‘How free’s yours?’

‘Less in some ways. More in others.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s not a competition. Or if it is, it’s a relay.’

‘And you ‘n Hannibal make up a full team, I take it.’

‘My point is, he wouldn’t have talked to Bill as an equal.’ The baggy, white uniform hung loose on Will’s body as he leaned forward, almost conspiratorial. His collarbones protruded under his shirt collar, deep divots with shadows that stared at Clarice like dilated pupils. ‘Here’s what I think happened. Buffalo Bill is a man with a trauma, something that festered in him for decades and tainted every cell of his being, like a cancer. The oothecas, the – the mantises, it all points to –‘

‘Fear of women.’

‘Fascination more than fear, though fear is an – an important component, a massive component. Raising mantises is his way of controlling his fear, of showing dominance. He’s planting this seed in his kills the same way his mother – or someone _like_ his mother – planted this rot inside him. The trophies he takes, the skin, they’re for – he has some kind of goal, some sort of end point in sight. But it’ll never end, because he’s chasing something inside himself that he’ll never reach. And judging by the increasing violence, the necrophilia – if he hasn’t realized yet, he’s going to realize very soon that he doesn’t _want_ it to stop, and the pretext will drop.’

Clarice nodded impatiently. ‘And the connection to Lecter?’

‘We know Bill’s pathological in a number of ways. The only direct contact I can imagine him having with Hannibal is as a patient.’

‘So he’s got money,’ Clarice said. ‘Lecter wasn’t cheap.’

Will smiled again. ‘His methods are – unconventional. If it broke up the unending stream of neurotic bankers and their melancholic wives, he’d take on charity cases and referrals cheap or free. You can check his patient records, but I don’t think you’ll find much. Hannibal probably spotted Bill’s potential, goaded it out into the open, let him go, and erased him from the roster.’

‘Just to see what’d happen.’

Will smiled, placid and ironic. Clarice felt the smooth surface of her varnished thumbnail, chewed a piece of dead skin sloughing off her dry lips. Had Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter tasted each other? Trimmed a secret sliver of flesh and let it melt on their lover’s tongue? A faint metallic twang manifested at the tip of her tongue. When she patted her lip, a tiny crimson speck stained her fingertip.

‘How could he’ve known?’ Clarice licked the blood off her lip only to feel it bead up again. ‘How’d Lecter guess Bill had it in him?’

‘It’s in the language, the eyes, the movements. I can tell, sometimes. Can’t you?’

‘We’re not all hyper-empaths, sir.’

‘Hannibal isn’t. But he manages.’

The single siren blast signalling the end of their time together made Will and Clarice jump in their seats. When their eyes met to check whether the other had noticed, they couldn’t help chuckling at their shared skittishness. Clarice had to admit that she liked the killer before her. In another time, another place, they might have been friends. With a few different variables, maybe she’d be the one sitting on the other side of the bars, passively conversing with rookie Special Agent Will Graham. The idea stung like the crack in her lip.

She stood, and so did Will, looking down at her from his taller height. Unlike with Hannibal, though, it didn’t make Clarice feel small. She didn’t immediately grab her briefcase, and flexed the fingers of her empty hands.

‘Why’d you do it?’ she murmured, though in the silent solitary confinement chamber, it sounded loud and clear. The blood on her lip was drying into a thin crust, which she knew she’d bite off later in a moment of distraction. Will he grazed the raw, keloided scar on his neck with his fingertips.

‘Because he saw me,’ he said, with slow reverence, ‘and in me, he saw himself, and he knew passing me by would be missing the chance of a lifetime.’

‘Sounds like two lonely men meetin’ the same need. Nothin’ quite that… noble.’

‘You’re right. But so am I.’ Will stepped closer, until half his face was obscured by a bar from his cell. Clarice noted that now only one of his eyes was visible, it seemed darker, sharper, a drain siphoning the affability he’d displayed so-far. ‘He showed me truth and beauty. He wanted me to Awaken. It would’ve been death to refuse. If not of the body, then of the soul.’

A question bubbled up Clarice’s throat, tickled her jaw, and she couldn’t help blurting out: ‘And what ‘bout Abigail?’

Will’s lips twitched.

‘Y’say – Hannibal changed for you, right? Respects you? But –‘

‘Don’t.’

‘ – he sacrificed her, didn’t he? How’d’you know he ain’t just usin’ you t –‘

Clarice flinched when Will struck the bars between them with the palm of his hand, a clatter like the ringing of church bells. She lowered her hand, which had reflexively reached under her jacket for the gun she’d left at reception.

‘You weren’t there,’ he said. ‘You don’t know what it was like for either of us. For her. It was a fatal birth. No-one –‘

‘Y’think I ain’t lost someone ‘cause I fucked up?’ Clarice said quickly, but Will kept talking, not looking at her.

‘ – has the right to judge except me and him. We’ve had almost a decade to replay that night over and over, and the nights that led up to it. You’re a kid. You think she’s gone.’

Will’s hand moved from the bars to cover his heart, then migrated south to lay flat against his taut stomach, and the itch in Clarice’s jaw felt more like nausea.

‘I like you, Agent Starling,’ he said simply, casually. ‘I’d be happy to talk more if you think I can help. But don’t dig in sacred ground.’

A little ironic smirk appeared on his lips as he turned away from her.

‘You don’t want to be _rude_.’

 

\---

 

Clarice slammed the door and let out a long, dramatic groan. Ardelia smiled at her, cross-legged on the Work Bed. They’d shared Clarice’s small bunk almost every night since they first got together, and Ardelia’s bed had naturally become somewhere comfy to work or hang out when neither wanted to sit at the hard desk.

Clarice made to join her and Ardelia tutted.

‘Shoes.’

Clarice emitted another sustained moan as she obligingly kicked off her smart Oxfords. She shed the rest of her outfit, carefully hanging the suit off the nearest chair, until she was left in her black sports bra and boxer briefs. She wandered over to the bed, waited for Ardelia to put her laptop aside, and dropped onto the covers like a cat, resting her head on Ardelia’s lap and curling her body around her larger frame.

‘How’d it go?’ asked Ardelia. She carded her fingers through Clarice’s short auburn hair in a way that made goosebumps pop up on her arms.

‘Okay,’ she mumbled into Ardelia’s thigh. ‘He ain’t an asshole like Lecter. Felt kinda like talkin’ to someone from back home.’

‘I didn’t know Graham was a redneck.’

‘The reddest. Man’s got a neck like a Labour Day march.’ Clarice wrapped herself tighter around the other woman. ‘Be nice t’me, okay? Been a real goddamn bitch of an afternoon.’

‘Didn’t make as much progress as you’d hoped?’

‘Told me what he could. Thinks Bill might be an ol’ patient a’ Lecter’s. Gave me some profilin’ info.’ She sighed. ‘I gotta get back to Lecter, really, but I need a reason Jack’ll accept.’

‘We can brainstorm tomorrow.’

‘Hm. Tell y’what, the one thing I did learn’s that those boys can’t be reunited. Not even in th’same jail but separate cells, they’d figure somethin’ out. ‘S not healthy.’

‘Graham’s that scary?’

The fingers roamed from Clarice’s skull to the nape of her neck, down to the plains of her back and shoulders, scuttling like scout ants. It felt safe and loving and after the weird day at the Marion Correctional Center, it was bliss. Sleep prickled her eyelids.

‘Not _scary_. More like… volatile? He’s ammonia, Lecter’s bleach. Don’t put ‘em together ‘less you want everybody fucked up.’ She blinked up at Ardelia. ‘I reckon _we’re_ like… peanut butter ‘n bananas.’

‘What,’ Ardelia smirked, ‘disgusting?’

With a grunt, Clarice heaved herself away and dramatically rolled her eyes, sitting cross-legged in front of her. ‘I’m startin’ t’rethink this lil’ thing we’ve got goin’. You got no taste.’

‘Hang on,’ said Ardelia. She plucked her phone off its charger and pressed it against the side of her face. ‘Hi, Mr Gilbert? Can I be excused from class tomorrow? My girlfriend’s dumping me over sandwich preferences and I need time to heal.’

Girlfriend. Clarice’s hands tightened on the bed sheets. Neither of them had put any labels on their relationship before, and it filled her belly with schoolgirl giddiness. She’d been a mess after Jenny, and then she’d been so busy working her ass off to make it to the FBI that she hadn’t had time for more than one-night stands, maybe a month-long fling here and there. Maybe she hadn’t _made_ the time. Either way, the appellation felt unfamiliar and wonderful.

But explaining any of this to Ardelia right now would be awkward and depressing. So she just giggled at the joke and powerlessly felt the pleasured blush bloom across her chest and face.

Ardelia lowered the phone and tip-tapped the screen. A frown darkened her face. Clarice recognised the painfully familiar colours of Tattlecrime’s webpage.

‘What’s up?’

‘Lounds just came out with a new piece.’ Ardelia handed over the phone. ‘Does it look legit?’

In the tabloid’s usual melodramatic language, the article claimed to have “proof” of the identity of Buffalo Bill’s most recent victim. Given the location, timing, and circumstances, Freddie Lounds pointed to a case that had thus-far been treated as a non-emergency missing persons report: Catherine Martin, freshly twenty-one, home on a short break from the University of Richmond. A bubbly girl with a party streak, neither her parents nor her friends had been surprised at radio silence after her birthday bar crawl. It was only when her roommate phoned Catherine’s mother to ask how much longer she was expected to feed the cat that the Martins contacted law enforcement. “Catherine’s notorious socialite persona,” the article read, “combined with a track record of weekend-long underage drinking binges, meant nobody was too concerned about her absence, despite her background.”

Her background?

In a strange twist of fate, Catherine Martin was the daughter of Republican Tennessee Senator Ruth Martin, who had recently come under fire for comments blaming victims of sexual assault for their “provocative” dress and behaviour. “It’s ironic,” the article gleefully continued, “that Senator Martin not only failed to pass her ideals on to her daughter, she may well, according to trusted Tattlecrime sources, come to experience first-hand the pain she dismissed just weeks ago.”

The story went on to claim interviews with Catherine’s missed Uber driver, friends, and sources in the FBI and the Metropolitan Nashville PD all pointed to Catherine’s disappearance being linked to the Buffalo Bill case. It ended with a curt sentence stating Senator Martin and her office had declined to comment, which, the author reasoned, further proved their theory.

‘Asshole,’ Clarice muttered, tossing the phone onto the bed. Ardelia had dragged her computer back onto her lap and made an uncertain noise.

‘Looks like the usual sites are picking up the story, though it’s still mostly tabloids. You think there’s something to it?’

‘Well, the FBI contact’s bogus, I’d know if we were floatin’ this as a big theory.’ She hesitated, scooted over to look at the monitor. ‘But Martin does fit th’profile. Young, white, brunette. Big girl. And she’s definitely in Bill’s area. We know he’s used Uber as a cover before.’

The women watched the screen in silence. The photo of Catherine being reposted everywhere depicted her mid-laugh at her brother’s high school graduation, her pretty round face angled up, staring at the camera through half-lidded eyes.

In a flash, Clarice saw her body on a riverbank, a dull purple-brown mass where her beautiful face had been removed like a mask. Her eyes would have disappeared long ago, consumed by decay or wildlife or damage during the flaying process, but in Clarice’s mind, they sat brilliant white in their sockets, matching ivory teeth, topped with specks of green and black. Staring at Brian and Jimmy’s cameras, unblinking at the flashes.

With a sigh, Clarice hopped off the bed and grabbed a discarded pair of sweatpants and an FBI-issue polo shirt.

‘Reese, you gotta sleep.’

‘Won’t stay out late.’ Clarice pulled her boots out of the pile of shoes near the door. ‘Jus’ wanna see if Martin's on our list a’ likely victims.’

‘And that can’t wait eight hours?’

‘If she ain’t on there, I gotta add her. Otherwise fuckin’ Tattlecrime’ll be a step ahead of us an’ Jack’ll tan my hide.’

‘You’re not the only agent working this case, babe.’

Clarice zipped up her hoodie and considered this.

‘Ain’t the only one, but I got most t’prove. More’n that, I wanna save this girl – these girls. If that means a couple late nights, so be it.’

‘I thought you said you weren’t staying out late.’

‘A night owl like you’ll have a generous definition of “late,” right, darlin’?’

With a quick grin, Clarice pecked Ardelia on the lips and dashed out towards the FBI lab. Ardelia glanced down at the dry mud flakes Clarice had just tracked onto the carpet, and clicked her tongue.


	8. Nasi Lemak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice tries to make progress in her investigation while Will and Hannibal pine for each other in their own ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inexplicably consistently have Catherine's surname wrong but am AFK so will only be able to fix in a few days. im fool

‘I know you’re scared. You’re lost.’

Primly, Ruth Martin raised a white handkerchief to her eyes and dabbed the moisture off without disturbing her makeup. ‘And without my little Kitten, I’m lost too.’

She breathed in, looked at the camera. Earnestness radiated from her like never before.

‘There are people who can help you. I’m one of them. The state of Tennessee can help you. When you look into Catherine’s eyes, I want you to see me. See your mother, your sister, your wife – and I want you to do the right thing. Not just for my sake, or Catherine’s, but yours too. You have the power to stop this.’

No smile graced her face, but she nodded slightly, gaze unwavering.

‘I have faith. Thank you.’

The video stopped, and the pale grey replay symbol appeared in front of the Senator’s face. Clarice turned off her smartphone and tucked it back into her jacket pocket. She worried the tiny scab on her bottom lip between her teeth, put a hand on each knee, and waited.

As it turned out, Catherine’s missing persons report _had_ been flagged up as a potential lead by a conscientious agent, but her profile and a history of false disappearances (an adventure with a boyfriend, a spontaneous road trip, a weekend buzzing on Ecstasy) had landed her at the bottom of the pile.

The ensuing two days were spent fact-checking every element of Tattlecrime’s story – a task that should have been straightforward, turned infuriating by Freddie Lounds’ persistent refusal to disclose her sources. She brushed off pleas and threats alike, and after hours of listening to her collected, melodic voice slipping contradictory claims and jibes down the line, Jack and Clarice had agreed that there likely hadn’t been a “source” at all. The tabloid had done what tabloids do: push the angle that would get the most clicks. The prospect of exposing Ruth Martin's daughter’s unsavoury lifestyle, condemning the Senator’s unpopular views, _and_ tying the whole package into the nation’s biggest ongoing manhunt had been an irresistible opportunity.

Unfortunately, perhaps due to Lounds’ wealth of experience, perhaps due to some cosmic irony, the invented story seemed to reflect the truth. The FBI had to take it seriously.

Horrified at the prospect of her daughter in the hands of a maniac, Martin refrained from giving the theory much thought at first. The agents who spoke to her were careful to stress that the extent of Buffalo Bill’s involvement was unknown, but the mere fact of the Bureau’s acknowledgement was enough to send the Senator into a paroxysm of panic that culminated in her complete belief in Tattlecrime’s version of events. Her initial enthusiastic cooperation soured when, in her mind, the case didn’t progress fast enough, with the Bureau following other leads in parallel to the kidnapping angle. Like many Republicans, Martin held a grudge against the institution ever since the FBI’s key role in President Trump’s indictment. After a particularly venomous exchange during which she refused to answer anymore “pointless” questions about Catherine unless the Bureau dropped all other leads, Martin abruptly declined to co-operate at all, preferring to rely on private investigators and contractors instead. It felt like a dead end.

The following day, Jack forwarded everyone on the Buffalo Bill case links to the same story: a two-and-a-half minute long video of Senator Ruth Martin pleading for her daughter’s safe return. She wore a muted Yale blue suit, a thin gold necklace, and a little light makeup on her eyes and lips. Her neck, naturally wrinkled from old age, looked like gnarled tree bark under the potent studio lights, accentuating the transition between the folded skin of her throat and her preternaturally tight, shiny face. Behind her, on a simple oak desk, stood a row of pictures of Catherine at various ages, smile always beaming. An American flag hung in the right-hand corner of the backdrop, almost incidental. A Tattlecrime watermark crossed the bottom of the screen.

The screen faded in from black, with Martin gazing ahead stoically, after which she tipped her head in acknowledgement and started to speak.

It was clear she’d been coached by conflict negotiators, maybe a forensic psychologist. Though the monologue directly addressed the kidnapper, Martin deliberately avoided naming Bill, simply referring to him as “the person who has my daughter,” and her language carefully avoided accusations. Instead, the repeated use of Catherine’s name – and particularly her _nickname_ , Kitten – combined with the photographs, appealed to the perp’s emotion, his humanity. Meanwhile, the offers of help and humane treatment reminded him of the Senator’s considerable clout, offered him an “out” if the kidnapping had escalated to nightmarish proportions and he was finding himself in too deep. It was quite unlike her actual, abrasive speaking style.

It was smart.

It was also, of course, remarkably short-sighted.

With only limited knowledge of Bill’s psychology, it was impossible to know how he’d react. Even when Senator Martin had collaborated, the Bureau hadn’t revealed the extent of the killer’s psychosexual sadism – no one outside of Quantico knew about the oothecas, the noted increase in violence, the necrophilia. There was speculation amongst the public, particularly about the latter, but no details had leaked out yet. The Senator’s emotional appeal might, to an extreme misogynist like Bill, prove a delectable challenge instead of a deterrent. He liked to make women suffer, and what dearer jewel for his crown than the delivery of a daughter’s desecrated corpse to her mother?

The pressure had already been high, but this turned it up to maximum. They needed to find Catherine, _fast_.

Clarice knew this.

And that’s why she found herself once more in the bowels of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, closing the Huffington Post’s mobile app after showing the Senator’s video to Hannibal Lecter.

Worrying her scabbed lip between her teeth, Clarice stared straight into Hannibal’s eyes and waited for a response. Though the heating had been turned down, he remained in the short-sleeved version of his uniform. Even sitting relaxed as he was now, hands loosely knitted on his lap, the definition in his muscles after years of bad food and restricted exercise evidenced how impressive his physical condition must have been. Clarice wondered if she’d be able to best him now, given the opportunity for unarmed combat. Bureau training aside, it had been a while since the drunken brawls behind bars. A while since she’d allowed herself to fight dirty.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘I believe I told you my conditions.’

‘You did. And I’ve got an offer.’ Eagle-eyed, Clarice spotted the minute straightening of his spine. ‘I just gotta know you’re actually gonna help out now y’know the stakes.’

‘I’m happy to aid those in need, when I am able,’ he said in a neutral tone. ‘Are you sure Catherine Martin is in Bill’s custody?’

‘No. But it’s as likely a theory ‘s’any. We know the timin’s right for him to’ve gone huntin’ again. He’ll have _a_ woman in custody by now. Priority’s findin’ him ‘fore he adds another notch to his knife handle.’

Hannibal nodded. ‘Understandable. What is your proposal, Agent Starling?’

Clarice unclipped the fastenings of her briefcase and extracted a thin sheaf of documents, which she slid across to Hannibal via the metal drawer.

‘The Bureau’s considered your request, ‘n we’ve agreed we can’t rightly move ya’ll to the same place in either Maryland or Virginia. Too much bad press, not to mention bad blood. No jail’s gonna agree to it. That’s where Senator Martin comes in. Most a’ Bill’s victims come from her state, and been found there too. There’s a not insignificant chance he’s got her daughter, so she’s got that horse in the race as well. Your help could lead us to Catherine, an’ even if it turns out he doesn’t have her, we’ll still have him and it’ll rid Tennessee of a serious threat. They’ll be indebted to you, and they’ll find a facility willin’ t’risk havin’ you and Will Graham as inmates. Now, ya’ll won’t be roomin’ together – that ain’t realistic – but the Senator’s willin’ to arrange for ya’ll to work in the prison library. Ensuin’ shifts, supervised, so y’could see him every day at relay ‘n leave each other messages an’ books. It’s a lil’ like Medieval courtly love, I know, but it’s the best I could manage.’

‘Generous,’ Hannibal said, thumbing through the papers. He hadn’t looked at Clarice throughout the explanation, laser-focused on the documents. His steady rhythm stuttered, and Clarice saw him re-read the same sentence a few times, underlining the words with his index finger. Her intestines started to twist into knots.

Did he realise it was all bullshit?

She’d tried to speak to Martin, she really had, but by the time she’d waded through permission forms and secretaries and found the right number to call, the Senator had decided to cut ties with the FBI, and any attempts to dissuade her from doing so without promising complete focus on her daughter to the detriment of other leads were met with a dial tone. Clarice knew the quickest way to find Bill was through Hannibal. She knew he wouldn’t talk without a deal. She knew Jack would never allow one to be negotiated.

She’d had to think fast.

In a previous life, Ardelia had worked at a law firm to put herself through her degree, then her Master’s, then a PhD. With what they’d learned at the Academy, Clarice’s experience in law enforcement, and Ardelia’s proficient legalese, it hadn’t been difficult to craft a facsimile of what the real version of this proposal would have been like. And since Ruth Martin and Jack Crawford’s signatures were exactly the sort of annoying random things Hannibal would somehow know, Clarice drew on a youth of forging school notes to expertly add both parties’ names to the final page. It was a good-looking pack of lies, all things considered. She only hoped Hannibal had been away long enough not to notice the liberties they’d taken with the Tennessee legal code.

‘It seems this is the best we can hope for, right now. I appreciate your efforts, Agent Starling. If Will is interested, I accept.’

‘That’s great, Dr Lecter,’ Clarice slid the paperwork into her briefcase, heart hot with pleasure. ‘I’ll have Barney keep a copy on file for you to peruse at your leisure, an’ I’ll pay Mr Graham a visit after we’re done. I’m sure he’ll say yes. And y’understand this’ll only happen after we catch him, yes?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Grand.’ Clarice clasped her hands together, leaning in. ‘Y’know his name, or jus’ his appearance?’

Hannibal smiled at her in that way that didn’t quite reach his eyes, head tilted ever so slightly to one side.

‘Agent Starling,’ he said, ‘you know that isn’t how this works.’

Clarice’s face felt cold. ‘I did what you asked. It’s your turn, now. Tell me what you know.’

‘When has it ever been that simple?’

‘But – the sooner we’re done, the sooner y’can get out.’

‘Yes. Soon, I’ll be out of bargaining chips. I think you can indulge me in a final game.’

She clenched her jaw. ‘Y’think you’re in a position to play _games_ , Doc?’

‘By all means, if you have a better lead, I won’t keep you.’

They stared at each other. The electricity in the walls hummed. With a close-lipped groan, Clarice’s confident pose slumped. When she looked back at him, she seemed older, and she felt it.

‘What the hell else y’want me to do?’

‘Nothing complicated, I assure you. Just tell me about yourself.’

Dozens of voices warning her to keep her life confidential sounded in her head – Jack, Chilton, Alana, even Will. She raised an eyebrow.

‘’scuse me?’

‘I enjoy your company,’ Hannibal said. ‘The BSHCI, in its wisdom, has opted not to let me correspond with my colleagues, or even keep up to date with journals. Friends have made themselves scarce. And faithful though he is, I’m beginning to tire of the lies Barney regales me with. If you tell me something interesting, I’ll reciprocate.’ He uncrossed his legs, recrossed them the other way. ‘It seems fair.’

‘You’ve got a crowd a’ folks bangin’ down your door if it’s therapists y’wanna talk to.’

‘I want to communicate on equal grounds, not be psychoanalysed. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalysed.’

Clarice smothered a snort and crossed her arms over her chest, stretching out her short legs so they met at the ankle just before the glass wall. ‘A’right. You go first.’

Hannibal nodded, and his gaze slipped from hers to a corner of the room while he thought of how to address the issue. ‘Buffalo Bill doesn’t find an inborn pleasure in the act of killing. It began out of necessity, and it caused him to retreat into a prison inside himself – one built out of trauma, one he is well acquainted with. He is not a true sadist, as Deleuze defines it, but he is growing to become one. By the time he reaches the end of this project and discovers that it won’t bring about what he seeks, he will be fully immersed in the mires of thrill killing. What could drive someone to their first kill, Agent Starling? What do you think his life has been like? Tell me about your childhood.’

The sudden shift of gear made Clarice blink, and she hesitated before blurting out, ‘My mother was and English teacher, my father was a police officer. It was – idyllic, at first. We didn’t have much, but didn’t need it neither. Until he – lost his life in the line ‘a duty. My Daddy’s why I always wanted t’make it to the FBI. Always his dream.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Mama couldn’t deal with his death. Mental ward, then she took her own life. Who _is_ Buffalo Bill?’

‘Wrong question.’

‘Without missing a beat, Clarice said, ‘where is he?’

‘I know you suspect Tennessee or West Virginia. It’s the latter. Central, but I wouldn’t be able to narrow it down further. That’s where you’re from too, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Webster County. That your question?’ Hannibal nodded. ‘Why doesn’t he kill ‘em right away?’

‘He starves them. To loosen the skin. What happened after your parents passed?’

A frisson of irritation ran down Clarice’s spine, tickling the same nerves her childhood memories always did. She scratched the back of her head, feeling the ghostly presence of the long hair cut years ago.

‘Moved to my uncle’s farm. Fit right in. He was glad for the free labour.’

‘Though you were a girl?’

‘Pulled my weight more’n his Summer hires. He taught me trappin’, shootin’, repairs. I’m a fast learner. Uncle gene was proud a’ me.’

‘Though you’re a lesbian?’

‘It’s my turn. What’s he do with the skin? Is this a trophy thing, an Ed Gein thing?’

‘Moreso the latter. There are parallels to Gein. A controlling mother, an absent father, abuse running the gamut from psychological to physical, via sexual, a desire for… security. But _if_ I’m right, your Bill is seeking this safety outside himself, not seeking to embody it.’

Clarice thought on this, and it all made sense even though she wished it didn’t. ‘So he’s usin’ the skin to create a comfort object. A new mother. That’s why he picks heavier girls, too. ‘cause there’s…’

‘More fabric. More give. Better seam allowance.’

The images of the flayed corpses flickered through her mind with the detachment of an Academy PowerPoint. She fetched a copy of the case file, took out the photographs, and crouched in front of her chair to lay them out on the poured cement floor. Sewing wasn’t high on her list of passions, but her uncle had passed on the necessary practical knowledge and she’d refurbished more clothes than she’d bought new. Studying the shapes and sizes of the missing patches of skin, it suddenly seemed obvious.

Buffalo Bill was making a mother who would watch him act in powerless, total submission. Who’d make him feel strong.

‘But why does he need so many?’

‘He’s mixing a matching their best features. Perhaps a lack of tanning experience has ruined some of the scraps.’

Hannibal was watching her closely. Clarice’s features hardened.

‘I know you met him. Had him in your office – or some sorta office. You let him go ‘cause you knew he’d do somethin’ like this, didn’t you? Maybe not something so _interestin’_ , but you knew he had potential. Or maybe you planted this seed in the first place. Watered it ‘n watched it grow.’

He didn’t bat an eyelid at her words.

‘To quote you, it’s my turn.’ Hannibal licked his lips. ‘Your uncle was glad to have you there… despite your sexuality?’

‘Why’re you so curious ‘bout me, anyhow? You can guess, can’t you? He didn’t know, not for a long time. He was just glad I didn’t ask for makeup or fuss over my clothes.’

‘But he found out eventually.’

It was hard to keep her anger from boiling over. The memories were never buried deep, and the slightest swipe uncovered them. This sort of sustained probing made them much harder to ignore.

‘How did he find out?’

‘Hey, you gonna fill me in on every detail a’ your comin’ out story too?’ she snapped.

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitched up. ‘If you really want to know what goes on in French boarding schools...’

‘From my limited experience of teenage boys, I can take a fuckin’ guess.’

‘Did I mention other pupils?’

This threw Clarice for a loop. Infuriatingly, Hannibal was as opaque as ever. She had no idea if this was an empty provocation or not.

‘Did the teachers at your school…’ she let the words trail off, unsure how to finish them. Embarrassed.

‘Is that what you’d like to use your question on?’

‘We’re still playin’ that game?’

‘Unless you’d like to stop.’

‘You broke the rules first. Asked me a whole lot a’ things. You’re the one owes me some answers. I ain’t gotta tell you shit.’

‘That’s true. You don’t.’

Clarice thought about how each breath that Hannibal exhaled was mixing into the ambient air, seeping out of the holes in the barrier, and making its way into her lungs without there being anything she could do about it.

She wondered how many breaths he and Will had exchanged.

‘There was this girl. Jenny. Lived on the farm next door,’ Clarice heard herself say, stepping closer to the glass divider. Although he sat and she stood, she was barely taller. But the few inches mattered, and for once, he looked like a rapt audience. ‘Her daddy got hooked on Oxy 80, then smack, and when she couldn’t get him to quit, her mama got into it too. They were backyard breeders, pitbulls and the like. Uncle Gene helped ‘em out with food – never cash – an’ he gave Jenny odd jobs for spendin’ money. I took a likin’ to her, an’ he let her sleep in my bed whenever she wanted a break from her folks. I’d talk about growin’ up in Charleston, and to her, it sounded as magic a place as Tokyo or Paris, an’ it might as well be as far away. When one thing led to another, she’d hold me real tight an’ beg me to take her away, take her anywhere.’

Crystal clear, Clarice remembered Jenny’s big, shining eyes in the Appalachian midnight, inches from her own freckled face. Small hands on each other’s hips, or laced around the other’s back. At fourteen, when her face should have been rounded with remnants of puppy fat, Jenny’s cheeks were hollow and her bones jutted out from her thighs, her sides, her torso. Both girls had long hair then, but where Clarice’s was cinnamon and thick, Jenny’s hung limply down her doll-like face like straw. She seemed made of sticks and rice paper and Clarice _ached_ to save her.

And she’d tried.

Wind whistling, heart pounding, branches clawing at her bare legs, and that sickening, awful screaming.

_She’d tried._

‘What did you do?’ Hannibal asked.

Clarice’s jaw clenched. She –

The metal door at the back of the room slid open. Barney poked his broad, bald head inside. ‘That’s all, folks.’

‘Already?’ Clarice checked the time on her phone in disbelief, only to find they were actually ten minutes over. _Damn it_. ‘Can we have a lil’ extra?’

‘Boss man says no. He’s in the office today, he’d know if I let you stay any longer. Sorry.’ Barney was beside her now, holding a plastic shot glass of colourful pills and a paper cup of water. His tone was sincere, and so were his eyes.

Hannibal stood up, towering over Clarice now. ‘Dr Pritchard is strict about visiting hours, Agent Starling. He worries about his charges being overstimulated, you understand, like a parent frets over his children. Though one hopes he doesn’t feed his children Haloperidol cocktails.’

Barney walked to the drawer and tipped the meds through. It was taking Clarice an embarrassingly long time to fight her way out of the morass of her memories. Hannibal went to collect his dose and she dogged his steps across the glass.

‘Dr Lecter. Tell me his name. Tell me where to find him, if you know –‘

‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ he said, popping the pills into his mouth.

‘But you _do_ know his name,’ Clarice insisted. ‘I’m sorry I _bore_ you, sir, but I’ve told you all about me. Quid pro quo’s what you proposed, and I’ve _over_ provided. Please. I _need_ to save her.’

Hannibal stuck his tongue out for Barney to inspect. She felt a little queasy, peering into the shiny, burgundy depths of Hannibal’s mouth, framed by perfect rows of ivory and that obscene pink tongue, imagining the blood, the organs – cooked and raw – and whatever else had passed through.

Barney nodded and Hannibal closed his lips. He glanced at Clarice.

‘You didn’t finish your story. About Jenny.’

‘I – I told you enough. You _owe_ me.’

The narrowing of Hannibal’s eyes told her she’d chosen the worst possible words.

‘I look forward to our next appointment, Agent Starling. Have a safe trip.’

Being played like this made Clarice want to scream, to shatter the barrier with her fists like punching through sugar glass, to take Hannibal’s shirt collar and shake him as hard as she possibly could until he _talked_ , for Christ’s sake, Catherine Martin was going to die and then he’d find another girl and another and the sacrifices to his deranged coping mechanism were never gonna fucking stop!

But instead, she only paused to stuff the photos back in her briefcase before rushing out into the hallway and toward reception. Barney followed, locking the door behind them.

Inside his cell, alone save for the camera’s staring eye, Hannibal slinked into his hard bed and pulled the pills out from where he’d secreted them behind his teeth, as had been the custom for the past few days. It would take a little while longer for the withdrawal symptoms to totally subside, and he was going to need his full faculties soon.

He was sure of it.

 

\---

 

Will had been washing his hands for the better part of thirty minutes.

Deprived of distractions, this at least gave him a rhythm and sensation to guide his thoughts by. It kept getting harder to think clearly – between the debilitating boredom and the mind-melting narcotics, he moved through every day as though neck-deep in molasses, head swimming.

So he concentrated on the flow of water on his skin and the constant exchange of one hand washing the other, then vice-versa, and recalled his meeting with Special Agent Clarice Starling.

Will’s throat hurt after the visit, unused to prolonged conversation. Even during moments of self-imposed isolation back in Wolf Trap, he’d had his dogs to talk to. Before she stopped visiting, Alana had shown him pictures of the pack settling into the Verger estate, clearly at home with an elderly Peanut Butter and Margot’s sleek, purebred Dobermans. They looked happy, and his heart had tightened with a bittersweet mix of longing and joy.

Poor Alana. Will hoped she was happy. She’d spoken of her son, of Morgan, but she’d made a point of not showing him any photographs, and Will supposed it was fair.

But that was years ago. And Clarice was very different beast.

He liked her. It had always been easier to get along with straightforward, somewhat masculine women,

_(don’t think about Beverly, don’t miss Beverly, he’d made peace with it)_

and in many ways, she reminded him of himself. In another time, he would have counted her among the few Agents he could actually respect, might have enjoyed a couple of days off fishing with her in companionable silence, or trading anecdotes of growing up in the forgotten corners of Uncle Sam’s back pockets.

He wouldn’t have stared at the bolted door long after she’d left, simmering with quiet, impotent rage.

The cold water was making his fingers numb, despite the repetitive motions of one hand sliding over the other.

Miserably, pathetically, he was jealous.

Not of Clarice’s freedom. He wanted to be on the outside, of course he did, away from the cyclical hell of supermax – but he could envy the freedom of the nurses and guards he saw every day, he didn’t need to feel that way about her. He wasn’t jealous of her visitor’s badge, either, nor of the label reading ‘F.B.I.’ next to her name. That hadn’t been freedom. Not the true, thrilling, fulfilling kind he’d only tasted with

Hannibal.

And that was the source of his jealousy. Will could smell him on her.

He wasn’t under the illusion that it was a real scent. He wasn’t that far gone. It was psychosomatic, triggered by the knowledge that this woman had conversed with Hannibal, heard him speak, seen him move and breathe and think. It wasn’t Clarice’s fault that her visit had flooded Will’s senses with an all-body hunger for his Achilles, a need he’d managed to keep in check for so many years.

But telling himself this didn’t make it hurt any less.

He didn’t flinch when an attendant rapped a clipboard over the bars of his cell.

‘Turn that damn thing off,’ the man said. ‘You can leave the water running all night soon as you start paying rent.’

Will did as he was told, the joints of his frigid fingers crackling when he closed them over the faucet, and the orderly continued doing his rounds.

Warm blood soon mottled his hands pink, but it would be a while before the coolness faded completely. Will closed his eyes and slipped one hand through the shirt flaps of his uniform, barely touching the taut skin of his stomach.

Ghosts of Hannibal were everywhere on Will’s body. His elegant, strong hands, his chest against Will’s own, his epicurean’s tongue lapping sweat from the most sensitive parts of Will’s skin.

The air whistled through his teeth when he inhaled.

He was ravenous.


	9. Ketupat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time goes by and Catherine remains unfound. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this whole story out on paper first and when I couldn't remember a character's name, I put in a placeholder to be changed later. Somehow, I forgot Catherine and her mum's placeholders were, you know, placeholders. I've now corrected this and changed it in earlier chapters.  
> Catherine and Marla Packard -> Catherine and Ruth Martin.

****‘Clarice Starling?’

Fifty pairs of eyes rolled to watch her, dredging up the recollection of being called out of her Elementary classroom to the Principal’s office, where the middle-aged counsellor with the sad eyes told her of her father’s death at the hands of a smackhead near the border with Kentucky.

The woman Clarice recognized as Jack Crawford’s secretary gazed at her with the rest of the lecture theatre, one eyebrow slightly quirked. She didn’t have to be a Special Agent to figure out what it was about. Silently, she stood up and gathered her things. No use delaying the inevitable.

A short walk later, Clarice sat sheepish before her boss’s desk. It was an echo of their first real conversation, but there was no hint of Jack’s roguish smile today. With an expression greyer than his suit jacket, he opened a drawer and pulled out a familiar file that he tossed towards her. The title, in skinny blue pen: ‘H. LECTER & W. GRAHAM TRANSFER TERMS.’

Clarice looked at the folder, then at Jack. He returned her gaze with an air of anticipation.

‘Yeah,’ she said, awkward.

‘Yeah?’ Jack replied.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You wanna, you know, explain?’

There was a definite edge to his voice. Clarice sighed. On her lap, both index fingers rubbed her glossy thumbnails.

‘Figured it was better t’ask for forgiveness than permission. Can’t always play by the rules. S’what we’ve been taught, sir…’

Jack opened the folder at a page bookmarked with a post-it note, exposing his and Ruth Martin’s ersatz signatures. He tapped his inked name with the end of a capped fountain pen.

‘It’s normal to embellish the truth a little. Not commit a federal offence. You know the penalty for forgery?’

‘Yessir. It’s a felony. Crossed state lines, no less. Ten years, easy.’

‘Senator Martin could press charges.’

Clarice nodded.

‘So could the Bureau. So could I.’

‘Yes. You could.’

They stared at each other for thirty long seconds. Each tick of the clock was like passing a kidney stone. Clarice’s forehead moistened, her fingers pressed down so hard on her thumbs they might crack right through.

Jack dropped the pen to massage his temple.

‘Damn it, Clarice.’ Her given name was odd on his tongue, more paternal than on Uncle Gene’s. ‘You can’t just euthanize your career before it’s even started. Not on a _hunch_.’

‘Ain’t a hunch, sir,’ Clarice said decisively. ‘All due respect. If there’s a stronger lead, I’ll drop this in a heartbeat. But y’all asked me onto this investigation to deal with Hannibal Lecter, and as long’s I think he’s holdin’ out on us, I’ll keep ridin’ him like Baltimore State’s a rodeo.’

Eyes closed, Jack said nothing, sliding his knuckle over his eye and pressing in, as if trying to directly stimulate his brain and squeeze out some forgotten endorphin molecules. Clarice shifted in her seat. Cleared her throat.

‘Unless you’re pullin’ me from the case.’

‘No.’ Jack paused, blinking at nothing in particular. ‘I get what you’re doing and why you’re doing it. I’d be a damn liar if I told you I hadn’t done worse. But you’re getting in too deep.’

When he looked at Clarice, how often did Jack transpose Miriam Lass’s features onto her own? Did he see her cut up like a pig on a butcher’s block, destined to a funeral at the back of a psychopath’s fridge? Did he ever perceive her as a living, breathing, determined woman?

Was she just a kid to him?

Miriam Lass had been older than Clarice was now. She’d been more educated, more experienced, and still, she’d been snuffed out like a tealight. What could Clarice hope to achieve?

Jack still hadn’t looked at her.

‘I ain’t in too deep, sir,’ she said. ‘When you gave me this job, you trusted me. All’s I ask’s you keep trustin’ me for a lil’ while longer and I’ll prove you right.’

‘I believed in Miriam Lass.’ Jack spoke neutrally, as though remarking on the weather. ‘I believed in Will.’

‘This is about Buffalo Bill. Not Lecter. We ain’t dealin’ with a mastermind, a – a sophisticated criminal. This here’s a schoolboy with a magnifyin’ glass, burnin’ ants to feel like a man. We’ve just gotta find the anthill.’ Clarice pulled the folder close and shut it, hitting it against the edge of the desk for emphasis. ‘I’m buildin’ a relationship with Dr Lecter to let me do jus’ that. And this lie’s a part of the process.’

Jack took his hand off his face and braced his elbows on the chair’s armrests. The tough armour was firmly back in place, but Clarice didn’t sense any anger.

‘If you’re going to break the law in the course of an investigation, cover your tracks, and _tell me_ about it. Otherwise, it’s a lot harder to help you cover them. Understand?’

‘I do, Mr Crawford.’

‘Risk is a part of this business. We both know that. But there’s a difference between taking risks and being reckless. I’ve lost enough good people to keep being reckless.’ Finally, Jack’s eyes met Clarice’s, and the softness she saw there was the only crack in his façade. ‘You’re not doing this alone, Clarice.’

She nodded, meeting his gaze. ‘I know. Jack.’

A smile spread across his face – minute, but undeniable – and he laid a heavy palm flat on his knee. ‘You’re heading back to Baltimore in the morning?’

‘That’s right. Hopin’ it’ll be the last time.’

‘You and me both. Alright. You’d better head back to class.’

Clarice stood and, after waiting for Jack’s assent, swept the file into her arms.

‘Thank you, sir. Did -?’

‘BSHCI sent it over, but I haven’t told the Senator or anyone else. You’re in the clear.’

Thoughtful, she made to leave, but paused at the door to the hallway. With a determined turn, she clenched her fist, and shot Jack a grin with fire in her eyes.

‘I’ll bring you that son’bitch’s head on a platter.’

 

\---

 

As Barney entered, Hannibal stood in the centre of his cell, staring directly at him. His books and art supplies remained in storage, so there’s not a lot he _could_ do, but Barney still got the creeps when he waited like that. It meant Hannibal thought about him, expected him. It was easier to pretend Doctor Feelbad was a phantom trapped in the basement rather than a thinking, feeling man. It was why Barney threw all the portraits he’d been gifted into his closet and forgot about them. If his Nana hadn’t taught him to be grateful and polite, he’d throw them in the garbage.

Alex Jones’ hoarse crowing rumbled from the speakers. Barney dialled it down to a whisper and headed for the cell door.

‘He was just getting to the climax,’ said Hannibal. ‘Did you know that eating soy makes one homosexual?’

‘Someone better tell Japan.’ Barney tapped the cordless phone sitting in his breast pocket. ‘Got a call.’

Hannibal quirked his head. Barney shrugged, lips pressed together.

‘Don’t know who from. Dr Pritchard made it sound important.’

With a small nod, Hannibal approached his side of the door, turned around, and slid his balled fists though the rectangular hip-level slot for Barney to cuff him. Once his wrists were securely bound, he stepped away to let the orderly inside. So-far, this was identical to their bi-weekly routine, when Barney led Hannibal to the institute’s boxed-in exercise area for a few laps in the sunshine – or what filtered through the yard’s milk glass ceiling. Watching him pace, neglecting the sports equipment laid out all around, going from corner to corner like an old tiger in a city zoo, Barney almost felt pity.

Almost.

Hannibal waited patiently, seated on his plastic chair. Barney pressed the hold button on the phone and spoke into it:

‘Alright. Thanks for waiting. I’ll put Dr Lecter on.’

A nervous male voice grunted at the other end of the line. Barney moved the phone to Hannibal’s ear, close, but without quite touching it. The warmth of the Doctor’s skin radiated on his fingertips, awkwardly intimate. Oddly, Barney was surprised Hannibal’s body wasn’t cold.

‘Hannibal Lecter, speaking.’

The phone’s volume was high enough that the conversation was plainly audible. The other man spoke quickly, voice rising at the end of his sentences, as though surprised to be having the exchange he himself had initiated. ‘He-hello, Dr Lecter, thank you for your time.’

‘Quite alright.’ He smirked. ‘You caught me during my coffee break. To whom do I have the pleasure?’

‘Oh, uh, this is – Roger Thorpe, I’m Senator Martin’s representative. From Tennessee –‘

‘I know.’

‘Oh. Great. Well. I’m calling on the Senator’s behalf to… clarify some things.’

‘Does this concern the FBI’s deal?’

Barney frowned, curious. Hannibal’s demeanour remained stoic.

‘Yes, sir, that’s right. Dr Pritchard was kind enough to forward us the details of the agreement. I’m sorry to say it’s… far from kosher. They’re trying to pull a fast one on you.’

There was a pause, like Thorpe expected a response, but Hannibal kept listening. Even though he saw him every day, Barney couldn’t gauge his reaction. Strands of hair grazed his hand. Hannibal was due for a trim.

‘Dr Lecter?’ Thorped asked tentatively.

‘Yes, Mr Thorpe.’

‘Ah – makin’ sure you’re still on the line. Thought the news might’ve upset you, ha ha. But – there’s no need, because – the Senator’s thought it through and she has a deal of her own. A real deal.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes sir. If you provide information leading to the safe return of Senator Martin’s daughter, we’re willing to transfer you to a facility in Tennessee – pending agreement from Dr Pritchard on behalf of the BSHCI.’ He cleared his throat. ‘We know part of your demand is for your, uh… _friend_ to accompany you. Mr Graham.’

Though Hannibal remained as opaque as the exercise yard’s milky roof, Barney sensed the smallest shift in his energy, a ray of light shining through.

‘Now, that right there was the most galling detail. The public would _never_ accept a transfer to the same jail. You understand, Doctor. What we _can_ do is move him out of Virginia, into our state, and let you write to each other whenever you please. And as a special favour, the superintendents of the correctionals we’re considering will let you speak on the phone for ten minutes, once a month, and an hour on Christmas.’

‘I was unaware that Tennessee’s phone lines were isolated from the rest of the country.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Will Graham doesn’t need to be there in order to telephone me. You seem to be grasping for bargaining chips.’

‘It’s the best deal you’ll be offered, sir, and if you pardon my language, it’s d-damn generous.’

A pause.

‘Will our cells have windows?’

‘They can do.’

Barney heard him breathe deep.

‘Alright. I accept. On the condition that Will and I are moved before I lend my assistance.’

‘Uh… I don’t know how we could swing that, Dr Lecter.’

‘It doesn’t have to be publicised,’ Hannibal said primly. ‘I understand our Dr Pritchard is amenable to compromise if certain… _conditions_ are met. In that way, he is more reasonable than dear departed Frederick Chilton. A simple monetary incentive will suffice. I imagine Marion’s management is the same.  You will find that a few tactical donations to these institutions will be far cheaper to the Senator – and the taxpayer – than stretching out this Buffalo Bill nonsense for however many months or years the FBI will require.’

Thorpe mulled this over, silent. Barney’s arm was starting to feel heavy.

‘Not to mention, of course, the lives that we will save,’ Hannibal added.

‘Of course,’ Thorpe said, quickly. ‘I think Senator Martin’ll be, uh, _amenable_ to your ideas, and you do sound very certain. I’ll get back to you in an hour, two max.’

‘Thank you, Mr Thorpe. I look forward to it. Goodbye.’

With that, Barney finally raised his cramping arm and ended the call. He’d never seen Hannibal’s anger flare up, but Barney was still surprised at how well he’d taken the news of Clarice’s double-crossing. He said as much while leaving the cell:

‘Didn’t look like the FBI’s game was news to you, Dr Lecter.’

Once Barney was on the other side of the partition, Hannibal slid his bound wrists through the hole, which the orderly went about unlocking.

‘I have dealt with the Bureau too often to be shocked at such a deception.’ He rubbed his hands together, restoring proper circulation. ‘It is in their usual arsenal.’

‘Not mad you got a downgrade on the deal?’

‘It’s subjective.’ A smile, warmer than usual. ‘Without the Senator’s call, I would have been stuck with no recourse after my cooperation had been exploited. Now, I at least have a chance to leave this place. The only thing I’ll miss is your exemplary service.’

Barney shrugged with a bemused smile. ‘I do what I can.’

‘It’s a pity my art supplies are still gone. I shan’t be able to give you a goodbye sketch.’

‘Maybe management’ll let me keep one of your old ones. If you do go.’

‘Yes. So you can show your grandmother.’

It took a second for Hannibal’s words to really click, but when they did, it was almost audible, like the cocking of a gun. Barney had always kept up the illusion of having a wife, a couple of kids – lies to avoid letting the Doctor into his private life, his world. Humble as it was, the home he kept with his Nana was a reprieve from the harshness of the BSHCI. It was his little slice of paradise.

How long had Hannibal been crawling all over it?

He smiled, impenetrable.

‘I’ll see you for lunch, Barney.’

 

\---

 

‘Roof won’t bother you no more,’ Jame said, pulling the thick work gloves off his hands.

The old man smiled through the screen door, opened it to gesture inside. ‘Thanks, Jame. Why don’t’chu come on in? Amber’s made lemonade.’

Jame gratefully followed him into the neat, aging single-story home. An elderly woman waited in the kitchen, and sure enough, there was a tall pitcher of cloudy lemonade sweating beside her.

‘You did it so fast!’ she exclaimed, pouring a glass. ‘Why, I barely had time t’mix this up! Y’know Jim always took care a’this ‘fore his back problems? Y’work a lot quicker’n he ever did.’

‘Woman…’ Jim grumbled, handing Jame a few crumpled notes from his wallet.

‘Nothin’ wrong wit’ sayin’ he’s a hard worker!’

‘Thanks, Amber. ‘ppreciate it.’ Jame stuffed the dollar bills in his back pocket, took the proffered glass, and drained it in a couple of deep gulps. When he lowered the glass, enjoying the feeling of the cool drink snaking its way down his insides, he saw the couple watching him with kind, creased eyes. Jame smiled back. ‘What?’

‘Nothin’,’ said Jim.

‘Thinkin’ how proud your Mama’d be, Jame,’ Amber said, refilling the lemonade. ‘I know t’weren’t easy for a while, even ‘fore you were on your lonesome… Maureen wan’t always easiest t’get along with, pardon me sayin’.’

‘Ya’ll were always peas ‘n a pod,’ Jim added. ‘We didn’t know how you’d deal with her passin’.’

After Mama started finding it too difficult to leave the house, Jame only ever went out to pick up her disability cheque and groceries. When he walked around town, hair wild and clothes stained, the pitying glances of the townsfolk were like nails raking his skin. He preferred staying in, too, even if it meant having to go to Mama when she

when

 

Now she was gone, he could trim his hair and buy new outfits, and the pity had turned into something like admiration. Surprise.

‘You’ve turned out a fine, strong man,’ Amber continued. ‘But I wish we’d see ya in church more.’

‘Yeah… too many people.’

‘Well, thas’ just it! You’ve got a nice ol’ house, you’re handsome, y’can use y’r hands…’

‘Y’ain’t into that junkie crap half the folks ‘round here’re hooked on,’ Jim muttered.

‘Right, right. Plenty a’ ladies ‘round here lookin’ fer a fella y’r type. Y’come t’church, I’ll introduce ya.’

Jame knew there were rumours about his sexuality. There were bound to be, when a boy spent a little too much time with his mother. When he’d never had a girlfriend.

But he wasn’t a faggot.

He smiled, showing a hint of teeth.

‘Real nice a’ you, Amber, an’ I sure ‘ppreciate it, but lately I –‘

‘Oh! Y’got someone already?’

Both seemed excited now, even old Jim. Jame shrugged shyly.

‘Well… I been seein’ a girl.’

And a twenty-minute drive away, that girl lay on the concrete floor of Jame’s basement, hands raw from grasping and pulling at the immutable chain tying her collar to the ground. Catherine sobbed, tugged weakly again. Her captor had fed and watered her every day so-far – at least, she assumed it was every day, there was really no way to tell down here – not much more than scraps, but enough to keep her alive.

Every day except today.

She was hungry, of course, but most of all, she was so incredibly _thirsty_.

Jame kept the basement hot, almost tropical. She hadn’t known why until a small, delicate insect had fluttered in through the open viewer of the thick metal door. Jame had been leaving the viewer open more often, perhaps to mock her attempts to scream for help, but this was the first time something had come through. She didn’t love having bugs around, but the sight of another living creature was manna from Heaven. It was such a strange being, too, like a praying mantis, but pearly pink and delicate, with bright red compound eyes. Catherine reached toward it.

Then, a cat with cottony white fur leapt through the viewer, swiped the mantis from mid-air between its sharp teeth, and jumped back out just as fast. The meowing she heard when Jame was around.

At least now she could reasonably guess the reason for the absurd temperature. Why was a brute like that breeding these weird creatures? _Was_ he a brute? She shut down that train of thought fast. Of course he was a brute, for Christ’s sake, he was keeping her chained like a _dog_ , confined so expertly he had to have done it before. To how many girls? Why? Why _her_? It was her birthday. She was so thirsty.

Her eyes stung. She knew she had to conserve moisture, especially with how much she was sweating, so she tried with all her might not to cry – until a tear escaped the corner of her cornea and the floodgates burst open.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Rustling.

Catherine’s face snapped up, fearing the sight of her jailer, but all she saw was a fuzzy face peering at her from the silver porthole.

The cat.

Catherine sniffed and pushed herself up on shaky arms. ‘Hey, baby.’

The cat didn’t budge, blinking at her. She felt pangs of longing for her own kitten, her Madrigal, and she was overwhelmed with the urge to drag herself to the viewer and run her fingers through this cat’s fur. It was a little dishevelled, the way old cats are, but it looked silky soft and eminently pettable. She wanted the comfort. Any comfort.

But before she could move, the cat dodged out of view.

‘No!’ Catherine gasped, though inside, she knew the desire to touch the animal could only ever be a fantasy. That bastard loved his cat. He’d flip his shit if he saw a hair out of place and realised she’d –

oh

Oh.

What if she –

No.

He’d been gone a long time. No point risking it now. He could come back while she was trying to do it and then she’d really be fucked. She’d have to wait a day, maybe two. Collect some food, if he ever fed her again. Chicken bones, meaty morsels.

She just hoped kitty would want to play again.

 

\---

 

Clarice gritted her teeth. Barney looked at his feet.

‘But he said he’d see me.’ Clarice pawed around her person, looking for her phone. ‘Y’all sent an email confirmation –‘

‘I know. And I’m sorry. But he changed his mind.’

‘Get ‘im to change it again!’ She abandoned the search and threw her arms up either side of her body. ‘He’s a criminal, ain’t he? This ain’t a spa. I gotta talk to him. I –‘

‘He’s not under our jurisdiction anymore,’ Barney interrupted. ‘Not really, anyway.’

‘Wha – the hell does that mean? He’s gone?’

‘Not yet.’

Barney shifted. Behind him, the receptionist watched them with narrow eyes, tip-tapping on her computer with sharp fingernails, a bird beating the ground for worms. Clarice ignored her.

‘Barney, what’s goin’ on? Huh? He knows if he acts like a jackass, we’re pullin’ the deal, right?’

In one doleful look, Barney communicated everything she needed to know. He knew it was bullshit. And the knowledge was a pin to her lungs, emptying them of bravado with a sharp whine. She’d been so close. This couldn’t –

‘C’mon, buddy,’ Clarice said, voice soft, almost fearful. Her hands found her hips, automatically adjusting into a power pose. Anything to ground her. ‘You sure? Can’t y’ask again? I’ve come all this way. I only need one more meetin’. I wanna… I gotta stop Bill.’

Barney sucked his lips in, torn. He really was too nice for his own good.

‘Alright,’ he said eventually, readying his keycard. ‘I’ll check. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.’

‘Thank you. Thanks. F’real.’

‘Take a seat,’ Barney gestured at the grey, half-egg armchairs lining the reception wall. ‘I’ll just be a sec.’

As soon as he was out of sight, panic started boiling up within her. Hannibal had found out. How? Her mind went straight to Jack, but that didn’t make sense. He was wilful, he had a strong moral compass, but he trusted her and she trusted him. Besides, he’d hardly waste her time and the Bureau’s funds sending her on a wild goose chase. Pritchard, head of the BSHCI? Something she and Ardelia had overlooked, a revealing mistake? A whim?

Maybe Hannibal had known the moment she laid the proposal before him and he’d been playing her the whole time, purely out of boredom.

And now Bill was going to slip away, and more girls would die, and it would happen because she’d gambled with their lives.

The anxiety fizzed up her throat, pricked the nerves behind her eyes, put her in such a fog that she almost didn’t notice the person sitting down beside her. All the other chairs were empty. Clarice realised her foot was tapping out a rhythm and forced it to step, crossing arms and legs and angling herself away from the other visitor.

‘Got stood up?’

Frowning, Clarice looked at the newcomer only to gaze at her own reflection, in large, mirrored sunglasses. The lenses took up almost half the woman’s pale, pink face, giving it a distinctly insectile quality. More striking, however, was the halo of frizzy orange hair framing her head.

‘Freddie Lounds?’ Clarice said, in disbelief. Even aged up a decade and with shorter hair, it was hard not to recognise her. Freddie raised an index finger, though her hand remained on her knee, a subtle _shush_.

‘I’m on the shitlist. Won’t take long for Ms Secretary to notice me. Don’t speed up the process.’

The receptionist hadn’t glanced up from her work since Barney’s departure, but Clarice imagined she’d have as much trouble noticing her as Clarice herself had. She glared at Freddie, but lowered her voice.

‘What you want with a _schoolgirl_ like me?’

Freddie sighed through her nose. ‘It’s not _personal_ , Agent Starling. Jack Crawford should have told you that this is part of being on Lecter’s case.’

‘Ain’t on his case,’ Clarice grumbled.

‘Well, of _having_ him on your case, then. He’s consulting on Bill, isn’t he?’

‘No comment.’

‘What’s he getting out of it?’

‘Like I said. No comment.’

Freddie paused for a second, delicately folded her hands together. ‘It can’t have been a very good offer if the FBI lost out against the state of _Tennessee_.’

Clarice blinked. Freddie smirked.

‘Got your attention now?’

‘And how d’I know your information’s legit?’

The journalist let her glasses slide down her nose just enough to reveal her quirked eyebrows. ‘You think I’ve been spending the last ten years twiddling my thumbs? A couple lessons with IT geeks and the whole internet’s your oyster. Russia, eat your heart out. I’ll forward you stuff you never even dreamed of.’

Clarice was glad the Bureau had beefed up its security, though they still remained a step behind the times where the web was concerned. She usually relied on Ardelia for that kind of thing. But she knew Freddie was nothing if not dedicated when it came to sniffing out a story. If anyone was likely to get into the BSHCI’s email system for a scoop, it was her.

‘What all d’you know?’

‘Depends what you can tell me.’

‘Listen.’ Clarice leaned closer. Freddie’s perfume was almost overpowering, a cherry tree scent that made her nose itch. ‘There’s no time for this crap. People’s lives are on the line.’

‘Guess you’d better start talking, huh?’

‘How can’t you care?’

‘I care. I wouldn’t report on this stuff if I didn’t _care_. But _caring_ doesn’t pay the bills.’ Freddie’s pretty plucked eyebrows raised significantly. ‘So?’

Clarice glanced at the receptionist. She was eyeing them now, a sour look on her face. Still typing. Checking Freddie’s picture online?

‘Christ alive,’ Clarice huffed. She thought of how to phrase it. ‘Bureau’s got reasons to believe Lecter can lead us to the killer. More’n we thought, at first, more’n just consulting, I mean. But he’s like you, he plays hardball. Got nothin’ to lose. So we made a deal.’

‘The FBI made a deal, or _you_ did?’

‘Far’s you’re concerned, ma’am, I _am_ the FBI. An’ the FBI’s real close to a breakthrough. So if you scratch my back…’

The receptionist was on the phone now, too far away to be heard, but Clarice clearly read the reporter’s name on her lips.

‘I’ll take you up on it if you’re speaking as _you_. Not as the Bureau. I don’t want a press release. I want some insider dirt.’

‘Been burned before?’ Clarice grinned ruefully. She grasped Freddie’s hand, encased in a slim black leather glove, and shook it decisively. ‘Got my word. I’ll give you the juice if you give me the facts.’

‘Excuse me,’ the receptionist called. Freddie squeezed Clarice’s fingers and stood up, dropping a piece of scrap paper into the Agent’s lap.

‘Drop me a line and I’ll send you what you need,’ she muttered, before turning to the glass doors and powerwalking out, receptionist dogging her steps.

Clarice unfolded the paper. An email address made up mostly of numbers, with a domain she didn’t recognise as one of Lounds’. One she’d set up just for this sort of exchange? Something anonymising, no doubt, a VPN or –

‘Hey,’ said Barney, emerging from the tall metal turnstiles leading into the lobby.

Clarice crumpled the paper in her fist and shoved it in her pocket, rising to meet him. Barney gazed over her at the outside world, brows furrowed. ‘Is that _Freddie Lounds_?’

A glance back revealed the journalist in intense discussion with the receptionist, who clearly went above and beyond the call of duty, rapidly berating Freddie even as she calmly recorded the exchange, not bothering to back away.

‘Yup.’

‘Always lurking around here,’ Barney remarked, with more than a touch of exasperation.

‘What’d Lecter say?’

Barney looked at her now, and though he was apologetic, there was an unmistakable glint of amusement in his features.

‘The Doctor says he’d love to see you… but he’s very, very busy.’

Clarice snorted, then laughed, and it was a genuine laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a bit of a gap between this chapter and the last one due to life stuff, but the rest of the fic is good to go, so updates will be posted every 5 days or so.  
> Also I couldn't figure out an elegant way of putting this in the text but part of the reason why Clarice lols at the very end is that Hannibal quotes the Unabomber and she recognises it.


	10. Popiah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal has fun with Senator Martin. Clarice airs out the skeletons in her closet in exchange for a new lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animal abuse/death, child abuse and homophobia feature more prominently in this chapter.

He felt like he was breathing for the first time in a decade.

The hall was wide and tall, like something he might spy in his Mind Palace. From the cage, Hannibal could see every intricate facet, brushstroke, and pixel hanging on the walls. He’d readily admit to a fondness for the classical, but he’d never turned up his nose at contemporary and he certainly wasn’t about to start now. The sole sculpture in the room attracted him most of all, a Greek-style life-size white marble carving of a nude woman, arms clutched around an invisible lover, titled _The Heart is a Lonely Hunter_ _._ On closer observation, one could see the fangs resting on her lower lip, the claws capping her fingers.

The hands clutching the cool iron bars of his makeshift cell steadied him in this huge, dizzying world, the vastness of which he’d feared he’d never see again.

He would die before he let himself be returned to the BSHCI.

‘Heads up,’ said Malone, a slovenly but pleasant Officer, who had checked in on him periodically throughout the day. ‘Chief Andrade’s comin’ in with the Senator.’

‘Best behaviour, got it?’ piped up Brody. He was the comedian of the duo, and Hannibal bore him all the affection that entailed.

Voices echoed down the gallery, clacking footsteps announcing the approaching retinue. Hannibal smiled brightly.

Ruth Martin was more Thatcher than Clinton, but she was canny enough to take lessons from both sides and had built up a devoted fanbase among Tennessee Republicans, alternating between the calculated political persona that had carried her to the Senate, and a cynical but convincing “mothering” side prized by older conservative men. A former Nashville beauty queen, she was used to dealing with the self-important male, and this experience had served her well. Her bulletproof façade was firmly in place, but Hannibal saw her trembling hands, the minute unevenness of her eyeliner, the way her heels came down just a little too hard on the polished wood floor.

She was flanked on one side by Nashville PD Chief Alexander Andrade, a quiet, broad man of working class Portuguese stock; and on the other by Roger Thorpe, the twitchy PA-cum-representative Hannibal had spoken to. He looked as mousey as he sounded, studiously avoiding eye contact. Senator Martin had no such compunction, staring straight at Hannibal, daring him to waste her time. He bowed his head politely.

‘Senator Martin. It’s good to finally meet you.’ He acknowledged her companions in turn. ‘Chief Andrade, Mr Thorpe. Thank you for making me feel welco –‘

‘Let’s cut the bullshit,’ snapped Martin, coming to a halt before the cage. ‘You’re here. The other one’s on his way. Tell me who has my daughter.’

Hannibal waited a moment before responding, studying the woman before him. A little vein wormed its way down her right temple, squirming with each heartthrob. She’d be all gristle.

‘I appreciate your situation, Senator, but decorum never goes amiss.’

‘Fuck decorum.’ The men at her sides shuffled awkwardly. ‘This is a business transaction, pure and simple. That clown car they call the FBI didn’t have the goods, you do. Far as I’ve been told, anyway. We’ve paid. So pony up.’

‘Does business preclude civility?’

‘You think you’re real clever, huh?’ There was no venom in her voice, just disdain. ‘You figure you’ll get your thrills bullying a scared mom, the same way you strung that FBI girl along. But I’m not scared. I’m _pissed_ , and I’ve dealt with your type my whole life. Give you an inch and you’ll want a mile. If you know something, say it, and you’ll be on your way to your new home. If you don’t, you’re getting shipped back to your basement and I’ll make it my problem to ensure you never get so much as a copy of the _Enquirer_ or a pack of Play-Doh until you croak.’

One could have heard a pin drop.

‘You’ve spoken to Agent Starling?’ asked Hannibal.

‘I’ve talked to Pritchard. Well, I say _talked_ – he sent me the transcripts of your sessions. Likes to keep an eye on you.’

‘So it would seem. Will is on his way here?’

Andrade stepped forward. ‘Took a little more wranglin’ with Marion’s admin than with Baltimore State, Dr Lecter, but he left Marion a couple hours back. When he’s in his temporary holdin’ cell, we’ll let you talk on the phone for a couple minutes, prove there’s no tricks.’

Hannibal nodded.

‘His name is Ron Ibisch.’ It took a beat for the others to realise what he was saying, but when they did, they sprang into action. More than one person took notes, hanging onto every word. ‘He grew up in the streets, but his artistic talent dragged him out of poverty. He’s made a name for himself in his local area with his taxidermy work. I spoke to him as an equal at an early show, before he faded into obscurity. We were kindred spirits. He described a plan to commit the murders he’s currently undertaking. You’ll find him in West Virginia – if I were to hazard a guess, in the counties surrounding the capital. He may have changed his name. But his background will be unmistakeable.’

When it was clear he’d finished, Thorpe immediately punched his speed-dial and walked off to an adjoining room, closely followed by the Police Chief. Ruth Martin kept her eyes trained on Hannibal, judging the truthfulness of his words. She nodded, pensive, and turned to go.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘You’ll get what you asked for.’

‘No,’ he replied with a pleasant smile. ‘Thank _you_.’

 

\---

 

The tires of Clarice’s rental car squealed to a halt in front of the Frist Center for the Visual Arts.

Back in Baltimore, she’d driven the FBI-issue vehicle to her designated hotel and sipped a black Dunkin Donuts coffee while emailing back and forth with Freddie Lounds. She forwarded some lengthy email discussions between Martin’s staffers and BSHCI admin that answered all of Clarice’s questions. While the police were involved, the bulk of the transportation and travel security would be handled by a private security company, in the interest of avoiding the public eye – and, of course, Freddie had contacts in that field, too. As Clarice waited for confirmation of Hannibal’s temporary holding place, she booked a ticket to Nashville International Airport and updated Ardelia on the developments. Her work phone sat in its charging port, a guilty reminder of the fact that she wasn’t telling Jack any of this. He could help her, he said.

But until she could deliver on her promise to find a real lead, she didn’t want to ask for help.

A dozen hours later, she stood parked on Broadway, gazing up at the pale grey art deco building housing the museum. Housing Hannibal. She hesitated for a second, but adrenaline carried her through and she stepped out of the car, slammed the door, and climbed the steps two at a time to the entrance. A police officer in uniform raised a hand at her approaching form.

‘’scuse me, sir, museum’s shut for the day.’

‘FBI,’ Clarice grunted, flashing her badge. The policeman blinked, colour rising to his cheeks.

‘Oh, uh, sorry, ma’am, I didn’t, uh –‘

‘Move.’

The mortified officer offered no resistance when she pushed past into the building. After a short back-and-forth with the senior cop in charge, Clarice checked in her gun and proceeded into the Center’s guts, soon finding herself once again face to face with Hannibal Lecter.

It was bizarre seeing him outside of his Baltimore accommodation. Even weirder seeing him caged in the middle of an art gallery. She’d read the reasoning – the whole operation was legally grey and involved a lot of favours and money changing hands. Coupled with a desire to keep Hannibal’s hiding place a secret and a healthy dose of last-minute panicked scrambling, she could see why they’d chosen this place. Hannibal’s move had been convincingly disguised as the delivery of a new art installation, and the Center’s location and open interiors meant they could keep an eye on him without showing him to the public. According to Lounds, Will would be moved just up the street before they were both sent to their new prisons.

That is, if they weren’t sent back as soon as Martin realised she’d been conned.

A portly officer with a kind face headed to her. ‘We’ll give you fifteen minutes, alright? About enough time to get lunch ready.’

‘’bout enough time for lunch to _get_ here,’ added his colleague. ‘Hope you like Chinese!’ he called over his shoulder.

‘Thanks, fellas,’ Clarice said.

Then, she and Hannibal were alone.

His cage was similar to those found in old-fashioned zoos, iron bars sandwiched between perpendicular wooden panels. It rested on a platform, and a small staircase connected the door to the gallery floor. Hannibal stood at the top of the stairs, behind the bars, observing her coldly. His affability wasn’t quite _gone_ – he still wore a perfectly _human_ face – but his eyes still made her feel uneasy.

Focus.

She rolled up the sleeves of her white button-up shirt. The suit jacket remained in the lobby, with her service weapon.

‘Nice change a’ pace.’ Clarice gestured around. ‘Different scenery.’

‘It is an unusual choice of prison,’ he replied, eyes riven on her, ‘but a welcome one.’

The fact that he was responding at all was a good sign. Okay.

‘Look. Our deal –‘

‘No use talking about that which doesn’t exist.’

‘I know you’ve got an offer from the Senator. An’ I know you’re boilin’ mad. But. I wouldn’ta come if you hadn’t given ‘em that name. Perp’s name.’

‘You were told? I was led to believe Ruth Martin didn’t look kindly on the Bureau.’

‘She don’t. That’s her choice. But her staff’s also her choice, and she’s picked a sorry bunch who don’t know how to secure a dang email. So you’ll forgive me for not payin’ her much mind.’

He said nothing. Clarice ascended the first step, put her foot on the second, and leaned forward, just out of reach. She lowered her voice.

‘ _Ron Ibisch_?’ It was tiny, but there was a smile on her lips. ‘H. bicornis,’ she continued, barely above a whisper. ‘The orchid mantis.’

Besides raising his eyebrows, Hannibal didn’t react. He uttered a single sentence, in a tone that implied a moral high ground: ‘She was rather rude.’

The absurdity of the situation almost made her crack up.

Focus.

‘We never finished our lil’ quid-pro-quo game,’ said Clarice, a little louder now. ‘I’m up for it if you are.’

‘I believe we were almost done. You just needed to finish up your story. About… Jenny.’

‘My _story_ …’ she mumbled. Her hands hung by her sides, and she rubbed her polished thumbnails. ‘Her folks got worse. Started stealin’ from her, then from my Uncle. And that – that he couldn’t stand, not after he’d fed ‘em and helped out their daughter without askin’ for anythin’ in return. He didn’t wanna call the cops, s’not somethin’ you do ‘round there, but he warned ‘em. Said you got one more chance not to fuck up, then it’s over. An’, ‘course, they didn’t listen. Or maybe they did an’ they tried but they got too dopesick. Uncle Gene caught ‘em tryin’ to steal our truck. So he shot their dogs.’

 

He’d waited until the middle of the night, until the farm was pitch black and the only noise was the huffing of cattle. Clarice jumped up in bed at the first blast of the shotgun. It was a sound she’d become well-acquainted with in her years at the farm, one she’d come to associate with the thrill of the hunt at best and varmint-busting at worst, but this was different. This was frightening. Through the thin slit between her closed curtains, she saw a flash of light with each thunderous bang, and across the property, the cows started screaming.

When she ran outside, wearing only the boxer shorts and oversized West Virginia Mountaineers shirt that served as her pyjamas, Clarice was hit with the powerful stench of copper. Even if she tried to pinch her nose shut, she could taste it, and that was worse, so she just let the smell invade her nostrils. Animal screams filled her head – from the barn, from the yard, from the woods. Steam rose from Jenny’s yard in the chilly Spring air. The grass was black with viscous blood. Clarice felt it stick to her bare feet.

_BANG._

Uncle Gene stood tall in a place where wild grass gave way to matted fur, skin silver with sweat and blood, barrels of his gun gleaming in the moonlight. That last shot had taken care of the final dog capable of defending itself. The only sound from the pens was a chorus of miserable whines.

‘Uncle Gene,’ Clarice stammered. ‘Dogs ain’t done nothin’ wrong.’

‘Puttin’ ‘em outta their misery.’ He sniffed, wiped his nose with the back of a meaty hand. ‘They’re sick. Inbred. Make the place reek of shit.’

Clarice glanced at Jenny’s house. Not a light. Not a peep. But there was no way they hadn’t heard.

Gene spat onto the sodden ground.

‘Go back inside. Git!’

 

‘And I did.’ Clarice spoke as if in a trance. She blinked hard. Hannibal’s gaze hadn’t wavered since she’d started. ‘I went into the kitchen, up the stairs, and climbed into bed. Passed Stimpy on the way, chained up outside. Watchin’ Gene work. I wanted to bring him up to m’room, but I was scared I’d get a switchin’.’

‘Did you listen to him finish them off?’

She nodded.

‘What did it sound like?’

‘Like… metal on metal. Shriekin’. Girls, girls ‘n kids, shriekin’.’

‘What happened next?’ There was honey in that voice, coating the inside of her skull to entice further memories. ‘Tell me.’

Clarice swallowed dry. Her mind was blank, but words tumbled out nonetheless. ‘He left the carcasses wherever they’d fallen, ‘cept for their main bitch, Stimpy’s mom, he put her on their back porch so she’d be the first they’d have t’clean up. An’ they got the hint, I guess, ‘cause next day I saw Jenny’s folks slingin’ their stuff into her daddy’s truck. My uncle tol’ me they were skippin’ town, for good. I didn’t see Jenny at school. Couldn’t rightly knock on their door an’ ask if she could come out ‘n play. An’ I thought – maybe she don’t want t’see me anyhow, if she ain’t stopped by. The garden was more brown than green, and not ‘cause of the season. Blood rusted up. I sat in my room an’ stared out the window ‘til the sun went down, hopin’ ‘gainst hope I’d catch a glimpse a’ her when they all left next mornin’.’

 

She kept her eyes on the house for hours, head lolling lower and lower until it sank into the arms she’d crossed on her desk. Seconds from slumber, she spied a familiar shape sneaking out the back door.

Jenny, a baggy hoodie over her dress, face and legs almost spectral in the night. She ran straight to the barn on Gene’s property, where the cows and sheep and horses would be laying down to rest. Clarice cautiously crept down the rickety stairs to meet her, noting with relief that Gene was snoring loudly from his room.

When Clarice reached her, Jenny was fussing with the barn’s lock. In the two days since they’d last spoken, her hair had become stragglier than ever, her scalp plainly visible through almost translucent locks. She jumped at the sounds behind her, whirling around with eyes so big and white Clarice worried they’d roll right out.

‘Reese!’ she gasped, rushing to clamp her arms around the other girl’s body. ‘I thought – I was scared I’d never see y’again –‘

Her voice cracked and she stopped. They held each other in silence, surrounded by the wind whistling through the trees.

‘’m sorry,’ Clarice murmured into Jenny’s shoulder. Jenny shook her head.

‘No, it’s my folks who’ve…’

Something wriggled between their joined stomachs, and Clarice stepped back to cast a curious eye downward. Out of the side of Jenny’s front pocket, she saw a tiny pink muzzle twitching for air.

‘Jen!...’

‘His mama din’t want him.’ Jenny extracted the newborn puppy from her pocket and pressed its tiny body into Clarice’s cupped hands, rubbing her own fingers comfortingly over its shivering back. Its eyes hadn’t even opened yet. ‘I was takin’ care of him, so he was in my bed wi’ me. S’why he’s still alive.’

‘Your folks gon’ let you keep him?’ Clarice whispered. It was the smallest dog she’d ever seen. She noted the pursing of Jenny’s lips and spoke softly: ‘Hey…’

‘I _hate_ them!’ Jenny hissed. She sounded on the verge of tears again. ‘It’s so _embarrassin’_ bein’ seen with ‘em, Reese! Y’know that stuff they always said in school? Junkie Jenny? My family’s gunna fuck up good one a’ these days ‘n get run outta here?’

Some of the first bloody noses Clarice administered and received were the direct result of kids running their mouths about that self-same thing.

‘They were right,’ Jenny continued. ‘It really _was_ a goddamn question of time, an’ now I won’t ever see y’again –‘

‘No. Hey. That ain’t happenin’. I’ll visit you. You c’n come over in the Summer. Where ya’ll movin’ to?’

‘I don’t know.’

Jenny’s eyes met her, shiny with tears.

‘I came here t’see if the animals were safe. ‘cause my daddy says he’s gon’ come here tonight ‘n cut their eyes out.’

Clarice held the puppy tighter, though careful not to hurt it.

‘He… he wouldn’ do that. ‘s big talk ‘cause he’s pissed at Uncle Gene.’ But she heard the uncertainty in her own voice. The reserved, kind man who used to be Jenny’s father hadn’t shown up for a long time. She didn’t know what to think.

As if answering her, Jenny leaned against her girlfriend, feather-light despite being taller. ‘He’s too strung out by now t’come over, I bet. But I wan’ed t’make sure. See you, maybe.’ A sigh much too old for her teenage lungs. ‘I’m so sick of it, Reese. I jus’ wanna grow a big pair a’ wings ‘n fly away. Jus’ fly, fly, fly.’

The urge to protect this girl hit Clarice like a brick in the gut, like it _always_ did when talk of escaping came up, and the pressure made her blurt out:

‘Dunno ‘bout flyin’, but we can run.’

Jenny didn’t respond. Clarice gently tilted Jenny’s face up with her index finger, to shoot her a determined look.

‘I mean it, Jenny. W’ain’t got nothin’ t’lose. I got my campin’ stuff in the garage. Lotsa food, water. We’d have to rough it a while, but we’d make it. I got knives, too, an’ my rifle. M’uncle’s taught me plenty, I could get a job quick. You’re great with animals, and y’can cook. I mean it.’

And Jenny saw that this was true.

She gripped Clarice’s arms hard, cycling between joy and terror.

‘O… okay. Okay. We gotta… c’n you drive? Can we take y’uncle’s truck? Where’s he leave his keys?’

This made the first flag of uncertainty raise in Clarice’s mind, but she knocked it down just as fast. They were both fifteen, but Gene had been teaching her how to drive. She’d even driven them down to church and back a couple of times. He was always in the passenger seat, sure, but she’d done well.

She nodded.

Uncle Gene always slept like the dead, so it was easy to dive back into the house and swipe the keys and provisions from the kitchen. Stimpy, tied up in his usual spot near the back door, woke up enough to lightly wag his tail at his mistress, but once assured that the noises weren’t from intruders, he simply rolled over and kept on snoozing. About fifteen minutes later, Clarice had her camping bag packed and stocked with food, and she hurried to where the truck was parked, under the awning of the barn. Jenny smiled nervously.

‘D’you find milk for the baby?’ Jenny asked, getting in through the passenger door. The puppy slept through the process of being removed from the pocket and placed in her lap.

Clarice got behind the wheel and adjusted the seat for her small stature. ‘Yeah. Y’make it sound like we’ve got a kid.’

‘I’d like that.’

Clarice blushed and fastened her seatbelt. ‘Yeah. Me too.’

When she put the key in the ignition and the motor rumbled to life, she felt strong. They were nearing the edge of the property when Jenny’s face blew up with naked fear, her hand clutching Clarice’s shirt tight. ‘He heard us.’

A quick glance in the side-view mirror confirmed this: Gene was sprinting after them, clad only in his underpants and a tank top, and though he gave up the chase when the truck pulled into the road, Clarice could see his mouth move as he called out to them. Though she stared straight ahead for the rest of the drive, his features ghosted in the corners of her eyes, stinging like onion spray.

For about an hour, everything was peaceful. They coasted through deserted mountain roads at a slow but steady pace, Clarice preferring caution in light of her inexperience. They didn’t talk much, still buzzing with a mix of fear, disbelief, and excitement. The radio kept them company with the quiet lilts of John Denver. Jenny stayed very still, wary of waking the sleeping dog, eventually nodding off too. Glancing over at her, Clarice’s young heart felt proud and so full of love it threatened to surge up her throat and out of her lips.

The needle of the fuel gauge neared empty. Clarice hoped they’d find a gas station soon. They’d driven straight through Sutton, unwilling to risk stopping so close to home, and gone down less travelled roads. Unknown territory. Only a little over half an hour to Charleston, and then… they’d figure it out. They’d make a home. Maybe she’d get in touch with Gene, once they’d reached adulthood and no one could force them to do anything, and she’d explain everything, pay him back for the truck. Show him how well they’d managed. They’d have a house, Jenny’s puppy – fully grown – and maybe even matching rings to prove it had all been worth it.

It was at this moment that a shining light hit the rear-view mirror and blinded her.

She swerved reflexively, swearing, and Jenny woke up with a start.

‘What’s wrong?’ she mumbled, petting the dog, which had started whining.

‘Damn fool flashin’ his headlights,’ Clarice said through gritted teeth. ‘Ridin’ my fuckin’ ass.’

Jenny leaned over to the passenger-side window and let out a choked gasp. ‘That’s his truck! _My dad’s truck_!’

‘Shit!’ The vehicle behind them honked loudly, longer each successive time. Clarice floored the accelerator, which only marginally increased the speed, but enough to put some distance between the two old cars. ‘How’d they find us so quick?’

Regardless of whether Gene or one of Jenny’s parents was driving the other car, they were bound to be more experienced in these dark roads than she was. They had to lose them, fast. Searching for an exit, even a clearing in the trees, Clarice’s hopes sank at the sight of the fuel tank hitting zero. The car ran on reserves for a little longer, but it wasn’t by any means a modern or efficient machine, and soon, it slowed to a crawl and then a complete standstill. Clarice jerked the gearstick fruitlessly, stepped on the gas, mind racing for a solution. The pursuing vehicle braked hard, tossing loose dirt and gravel up onto the bed of Clarice’s truck. Jenny had crumpled into a heap of shuddering tears, hiding her face in the puppy’s fur. The dog squeaked in confusion. Clarice heard a car door slam shut, the deep notes of her uncle’s voice.

‘Fuck this.’

Acting on instinct, she unfastened her seatbelt and threw open the door.

‘Reese?’ sobbed Jenny.

‘C’mon!’ Clarice yelled, tugging the camping bag over her shoulder. On autopilot, Jenny undid her belt and jumped out, meeting Clarice in front of the car, flooded by the powerful headlights, an island in the dark road. Clarice grasped her hand tightly and shot off into the woods. Gene screamed after them, followed by more voices: Jenny’s parents, Stimpy’s bark.

The sounds disappeared under the rush of blood pumping in her head, louder the harder she pushed, dodging trees and ditches and ignoring the branches gouging weeping gashes in her legs until –

‘Reese!’

Jenny was tugging at Clarice’s grip, falling behind, panting. She slowed to a fast walk.

‘We can do it, Jen, we can lose ‘em! The woods’re thick, our folks’re slow, we can shake Stimpy – he listens to me more’n him!’

‘I can’t.’

‘Push through it!’

‘ _I can’t!’_

With that, she used a final burst of energy to propel herself into Clarice’s arms, holding her tight. In her front pocket, the pup wriggled between them.

‘I’m sorry, Reese,’ her voice cracked, like a radio searching for a signal. ‘I’m sorry. I wish I was strong. I love you. I love you.’

Clarice saw their families approach, could make out the anger and worry in their faces, lit from below by the flashlights they pointed at the girls. Stimpy reached them first, barking, happy to see them. She wanted to scream. The lights shone easily through Jenny’s wispy blonde hair, gave her a pure white outline that reinforced her hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Clarice put her hands on either side of Jenny’s face and pressed a final desperate kiss to her thin lips.

Uncle Gene clamped a meaty arm around her waist, lifting her up and away from Jenny, ignoring the shouted curses she fired off the second her mouth left the other girl’s, easily pinning her to his much larger frame as Jenny’s father raised his hands and rained them down on her while she screamed and screamed and screamed.

The rest of the evening was a blur of nausea and tears.

 

Almost fifteen years later, in Nashville, Tennessee, Clarice kept her eyes downcast as she sank back into reality. The scars on her legs, her throat, her muscles – everything felt raw. Hannibal had listened without saying a word.

‘Did you see her again?’ he asked. If she didn’t know better, she’d have sworn there was compassion in his tone. Understanding. How many people had he fooled with that well-worn psychiatrist mask?

‘No.’ Clarice opened and closed her hands to stop them from trembling. ‘Uncle Gene mentioned a while back that she, uh, she moved to Sutton, but he didn’t… didn’t give me the details. He was pissed as hell that night. Never talked ‘bout it, but he never let me skip church after that. Relaxed when I dated a couple guys to get him off my back. An’ now – well, when we last talked, couple years back, he – I guess he’s tryin’, but he doesn’t _get it_.’ She smiled humourlessly. ‘Asks if I wanna be a man, and doesn’t understand when I say no, I’m a woman, my _own_ woman. So then he asks why I try to look like a man, and he doesn’t understand when I say I’m jus’ tryin’ to look like me.’

Her grin turned genuine, though nervous.

‘Y’got a real knack for this shrink stuff. Might wanna keep at it.’

Hannibal smiled back, creasing the corners of his eyes. His face relaxed with thought, and he seemed to be weighing his options carefully.

‘You have a new partner now, yes?’

‘Ain’t explainin’ how all’a _that_ got started if that’s your next question, thank you very much.’

‘You don’t need to tell me anything else. But you’d benefit from telling her what you told me.’

‘Thanks for the free counsellin’.’ With the fog of memory dissipating, she began to feel uneasy about her vulnerability in the face of this dangerous man. It was unprofessional. At least there wasn’t a megalomaniacal hospital director recording their conversation this time. ‘We gotta get to it. Police’ll kick me out any second. Please, doc.’

‘Clarice.’ Her name was foreign on his lips. She didn’t like it. ‘Agent Starling. Your killer is not dissimilar to you. I met him through… a relative of his, someone who contacted me, asked for a referral as part of a charity program. Working with troubled youth in disadvantaged areas. It was a project I dipped in and out of depending on my workload. It allowed me to see more of this country’s… true face.’

‘Y’only met him when he was a kid?’ She couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice.

‘… so how do I know I have the right man? The head, Agent Starling. It belongs to the woman who put us in touch.’

The vacant gaze of the decapitated head in its jar jumped to the forefront of Clarice’s mind.

‘But – y’were on the run when it got hid in Wolf Trap.’

‘I didn’t say I placed it myself. I have a contact, someone who agrees to stay in the United States to manage my affairs, forward my correspondence. She is… like family.’

Even after his capture, details of Hannibal’s financial independence and ease of travel remained murky. The Bureau had suspected accomplices, but nothing had come of the investigation. With his mercurial nature, it stood to reason that anyone he trusted to this extent would be just as illusory – if not more. Hannibal was vain, after all. Theatrical. He couldn’t help his trademark exhibitionism. But someone content to follow his cult, to live a normal life and return home to sort out his problems, a personal sleeper cell – that was someone altogether more slippery.

‘So… your “family member” got sent the head. One way or another. Bill picked you ‘cause you fed his dark side, I’m guessin’?’

‘I prefer to see it as nurturing his talents.’ He sighed. It was subtle, but Clarice noticed the rise and fall of his chest. ‘I had hoped he’d break out of his situation by acting on the intensity of the feelings he held toward his mother. But we had too little time together.’

‘All due respect, Dr Lecter… I don’t know that there’s any nobility in gettin’ a sick child to kill his mother.’

‘An eye for an eye.’

‘Makes the world go blind.’

‘And in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. But our friend has let himself be fully blinded. His awakening is half-baked, at best.’ He put his hands behind his back, formal. ‘Do you know why I asked about your past, Clarice?’

‘Nosiness.’

‘I want you to think about origins. Yours. Buffalo Bill’s. The case’s.’

‘Origins…’ she murmured. Hannibal continued:

‘You can find him. You found the head, after all. I believe you are capable of understanding.’ He hesitated before he spoke, just for a second. ‘Whatever is inside Will and I, it’s inside you, too.’

‘Nah,’ she replied automatically. ‘’ppreciate your help, but you’re wrong.’

Hannibal ignored this. ‘And whatever _it_ is can make you reckless. You need only look at dear Will’s history. And don’t forget that _it_ is inside Bill, as well. So be careful, Agent Starling. Promise.’

His smile crinkled his eyes again, eminently paternal, but he remained as opaque as always. Clarice balled up her hands. The distant steps of the officers coming to escort her out echoed through the quiet hall.

 

\---

 

‘Oh, wow,’ said Ardelia. ‘When did you last _sleep_?’

Clarice grunted non-specifically, slowly rubbing her tired eyes with her knuckle. As soon as she’d stepped out of the Frist Center, all the adrenaline spurring her on evaporated and the full weight of her insomnia crash landed on her consciousness. Skyping with Ardelia, she could barely keep her eyes open.

‘Jack’s gonna start asking questions when you don’t show up tonight, y’know.’

‘I had to talk to Lecter,’ Clarice mumbled, stifling a yawn. ‘Told me a lot more stuff this time ‘round and I’m… I think I’m close. Way close.’

‘What did he say?’

A condensed, stripped-down version of events later, Ardelia was deep in thought. Clarice could see by the way her shoulders moved that she was typing, but the computer screen was off-camera. Clarice wished she could teleport straight back to Quantico, to lay down beside her girlfriend, let herself be soothed by the smells of apple body wash and coconut oil and Ardelia’s natural scent, clamber onto the taller woman’s lap to wrap her legs around her waist and kiss her silky lips. They’d been together every day since they started at the Academy, and being at the end of an almost two-day streak of running ragged made Clarice realise how much she missed her. How much she _trusted_ her.

_Focus_.

‘The origins of the case…’ Ardelia pondered. ‘Does he mean, like, Bill’s background?’

‘I mean, prob’ly, but I reckon he means the case proper, more th’n anythin’. The investigation. Lecter says it’ll point me to the right guy. But he’s told me before that Bill’s from West Virginia, an’ the first victim’s from another state.’

‘What if…’ Ardelia typed some more. ‘What if he means… the _first_ victim?’

Clarice frowned. Her sleep-deprived brain was running on a lag. Ardelia clarified:

‘The first body we found wasn’t the first _victim_. Remember? The Bureau fished them out of the Tennessee River as they bobbed up, out of order. The first corpse wasn’t the oldest. We found the oldest about a month later, after the first two –‘

‘Wait. The oldest body, the Roanoke girl. She was in the water for a year, maybe a lil’ less. But she’s not the first _victim_. That’d be… Jane Doe in the jar. She’s been dead year ‘n years. But we don’t know who she is.’

‘We don’t. But…’ Ardelia leaned back in her chair. She was working on one of the Academy computers in a mostly empty room. There was cautious excitement in her eyes. ‘The jar. It’s not mass-produced. It’s from a small supplier, some sorta Mom ‘n Pop operation from West VA. I just pulled up a map of the area they cover. And you know what’s included there?’

‘Hometown a’ one of the first victims,’ Clarice supplied, quietly. It was slotting into place.

‘Hometown of Kit Carney. She’s in competition with Roanoke for _oldest_. They’d both been in the water so long it was hard to say for sure. Lab could’ve made a mistake. Maybe Carney’s the first of this spree.’

‘I’ve gotta –‘

‘Wait. There’s more, I think.’ Ardelia double-checked her findings, breathed in deep. ‘I cross-referenced the missing persons reports in that area with Jane Doe’s data. Approximate age, date range of when she went missing, hair colour.’

Clarice’s temples throbbed. She let out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding. ‘Yeah?’

‘I think… I found a match. _I think_. Let me…’

Clarice’s work phone buzzed on the dashboard. Ardelia’s email consisted of a screen capture of a missing persons report dating back almost ten years, for a Delia Jones. The woman’s wide-open gaze in the accompanying photograph made Clarice’s heart skip a beat. The woman’s home town was the cherry on top.

‘Same place Carney’s from.’

‘That’s her. Shit. That’s gotta be her, Del!’

‘It’s a cold case, and she wasn’t really… apparently, she had some mental health trouble. I don’t know how long it’d take for local cops to cooperate and reopen the file, but if we want to find Catherine Martin –‘

‘We can’t waste time.’ Clarice pulled her seatbelt over her chest. ‘Send me the coordinates, alright? I’ll head to Charleston ‘n rent a car when I land at Yeager.’

‘Texting you now. Should I talk to Jack?’

‘Hold off, jus’ a lil’. Only talk to him if he talks t’you. Thanks, darlin’.’ Her thumb went to sever the connection, but she hesitated. ‘Dee?’

‘Yeah?’

‘When I’m… when I’m back, there’s somethin’ I wanna tell you. ‘bout when I was young. If that’s okay.’

Ardelia smiled.

‘Yeah. That’s okay.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I specifically have Clarice and Jen listed to John Denver because I'm currently extremely into [Take My Home, Country Roads](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vrEljMfXYo). This isn't necessarily what they're listening to, but it's pretty fitting.


	11. Mee Goreng

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarice has a breakthrough. So does Hannibal.

‘Mornin’, Doctor.’ Officer Malone tipped his cap as he approached the cage. Brody followed a few steps behind, sullenly carrying a breakfast tray. Hannibal smiled.

‘Good morning, Officer Malone, Officer Brody. Did you have a good night?’

‘Yeah, pretty good.’ Malone walked around the sculpture of the woman to reach the side of the cell, retrieving the handcuffs from his belt. Hannibal dutifully met him, turned around, and slipped his clenched fists through the bars, where his wrists were secured in place. ‘Brody partied a little hard, but that’s his thing. Not too tight?’

‘Perfect.’

‘I don’t “party a little hard.” Y’only think so ‘cause you’re a shut-in,’ Brody complained. Malone went back to the front of the cage and unlocked the door before taking the tray from his colleague.

‘You’re not wrong,’ said Malone, cheerfully, ‘but at least being a nerd leaves me with less hangovers.’

‘Ain’t a hangover. I got migraines. It’s a medical thing. Asshole.’

Malone chuckled, bringing the food into the cell. Brody sat on the second step leading up, facing away from the others, groaning a little and grumbling about extra shifts and needing the money.

‘Are you often partnered up?’ asked Hannibal.

‘Eh, sometimes. Chief knows we’ve been buddies since pre-K so he likes to think we work good together…’ Malone set the plastic tray down and started taking the plastic film off the different elements of the meal while he spoke about his past with Brody, the latter interjecting the occasional catty comment. Hannibal listened politely while, unseen by the officers, he shimmied the straightened paperclip from where he’d slipped it into his wrist.

Bringing it all the way to Nashville had been a risky gamble. The moment he spotted the clip that Clarice and Barney had missed in the Buffalo Bill folder, he knew he had to save it. Isolated as he was from the rest of the BSHCI population, and given that he’d been a compliant inmate for the better part of his incarceration, in-depth room searches had dwindled off to about once per month. There were plenty of cubbies in the cell that would hide a small piece of metal. The removal of his art supplies and books could have exposed him, but he’d had the foresight to stick the paperclip to the underside of his bedframe with a paste of crumbled narcotics and spit, and it had remained undetected.

Hannibal was certain the transfer to Tennessee would involve a cavity search (if only in a last-ditch swipe at his dignity), so he opted to secrete the straightened clip another way. The final time Barney came into his cell, to give him a haircut, he’d been left handcuffed to the door for a moment, giving him the opportunity to lose his footing so he could strain one wrist again the cuffs to create a small but significant laceration. Even in full view of the cameras, with a little sleight of hand and a modicum of self-control, it had been easy to discreetly lift the plaster off the wound, align the piece of metal, and push it inside, millimetre by millimetre, until it had totally penetrated the flesh. Once he’d made it past the transfer and into the Frist Center, it was only a matter of waiting for the right moment.

And the right moment had come.

As Malone unpacked the last piece of food, Hannibal felt the handcuff lock click open.

As Malone set the plastic cutlery to one side of the tray, Hannibal rose to his feet and silently crept up behind him.

As Malone turned to finish off an anecdote, Hannibal saw his eyes widen like an animal at slaughter, and delivered a powerful jab to the base of his throat to cut off his airflow before he could scream.

Malone slammed back against the table, spilling its contents on the floor with a clatter, grabbing at his throat and gasping in desperate fear. He’d be able to breathe again in a few seconds. No time to waste.

Brody jumped at the noise and whirled around, reaching for his radio, but Hannibal had already aimed a kick that caught the officer square under the chin and sent him flying to the ground. His head bounced off the floor like a Ping-Pong ball, stunning him further.

Malone croaked out a quiet “help.” He’d been kind. Hannibal would have liked to thank him with a quick demise, if circumstances were different. Instead, he was on Malone in a flash, before he could recover further, and he closed his powerful jaws around the policeman’s throat, biting into that Adam’s apple again and again, chewing and pulling, so that soon, he’d left a wide, ruddy, gaping hole in his neck. Malone lay on the ground, paling as the colour drained from his face and out through his throat in thick, syrupy blobs, shaking with fear and pain. Hannibal stroked Malone’s curly hair once, twice, then searched him until he unsheathed a small, sharp knife.

Brody, meanwhile, was struggling to sit up, swaying like a drunk. He yelped when Hannibal straddled his stomach, opened his mouth to call for help – but went very still when he felt the edge of a blade on his face. Through unfocused eyes, Hannibal appeared to be multiple people, have multiple heads. Brody whined at the back of his throat. Malone gurgled from the cage.

‘Do you know the poet Enheduanna?’

‘P-pl-please don’t kill me,’ Brody stammered.

‘She is the earliest known poet, the High Priestess of Inanna, goddess of love and war. Enheduanna exalted her in song.’

‘Please, please, I-I’ll let you go, I –‘

‘”Be it known,”’ Hannibal recited quietly, forcefully, pressing the knife harder into Brody’s skin to silence him, ‘”that you crush heads! Be it known that you devour corpses like a dog! Be it known that your gaze is terrible!”’

Brody was crying. Hannibal felt the warmth of urine spreading through Brody’s trousers.

‘”Be it known that you are unshakeable and unyielding! Be it known that you always… stand… triumphant.”’

And he began to work.

 

\---

 

When Lieutenant Gutierrez learned the details of the assignment, he’d been a bundle of nerves. Babysitting America’s most notorious living murderer, in a facility not constructed for that purpose, all while keeping it under wraps from the general public – it made him uneasy, to say the least. He was glad Brody and Malone got the bulk of the caretaking duties. They were younger. They didn’t quite remember the terror of the Chesapeake Ripper’s heyday. But Gutierrez did. So he was glad the past day and half had consisted mostly of signing in authorised visitors, radioing with the Will Graham transfer crew about his imminent arrival at the Ryman auditorium down the road, and chugging buckets of the museum’s passable coffee.

It had been fairly uneventful, all things considered.

Which only made the gunshots reverberating through the building all the more startling.

Swearing, Gutierrez leapt to his feet, but hesitated just as fast. He shared a look with the Sergeant and the Officer present in the lobby, who mirrored his concern.

Gutierrez gestured to the door leading further into the museum, drew his Glock, and cautiously walked over. His colleagues followed, firearms at the ready. He braced his shoulder, took a step back, and crashed through the door, whipping his gun up.

Nothing. The art on the walls remains undisturbed. The surfaces were pristine. A quick search ascertained that the room was secure, and Gutierrez warily eyed the door to Hannibal’s corridor. The shots had originated from there. Again, he hurried over with the others in tow, took a deep breath, and burst through.

All three gasped at the scene before them.

The door of the cage hung wide open, the inside comparatively clean amidst the sea of thick blood coating the floor. Officer Brody lay propped up against the platform holding the cell, unconscious. His right wrist was cuffed to a bar, a gun lay by his left hand, and his head hung limp over his chest. His navy uniform was dyed deep purple with blood, because his face was a mess of cuts and hanging tissue.

But at least he was recognisable. Because Malone – oh, Christ, Malone –

Malone’s body was entwined with that of the female statue near the cell, his limbs hastily twisted and broken to fit her posture, a grotesque parody of a lover’s embrace. His head had been roughly severed, and his neck ended in ragged flesh and ripped skin, as though his skull had been bitten or torn off in one great strike. The statue’s mouth was smeared with shades of red, and with miscellaneous pieces of meat littering the ground at her feet, the tableau gave the distinct impression of a helpless man being devoured by his partner.

‘Oh, fuck,’ Gutierrez moaned. He wanted to look away, but his eyes were fixed on the horror before him. The Sergeant by his side was sobbing. Shaking, he unhooked the radio from his chest and held it to his mouth. ‘Copy, HQ, there’s a big fuckin’ situation at the Frist Center. Lecter’s broken out. Two dead.’

That’s when Brody’s body let out a garbled groan.

Holding his breath, Gutierrez sped over to the Officer’s body and pressed two fingers to his neck. A pulse. A pulse!

‘Copy – scratch that! One dead, one critical! We need an ambulance, _now_!’ His colleagues were exploring the adjacent rooms, securing them. ‘ _Quick_ , or Brody ain’t gonna make it. He’s lost a lot of blood. Suspect is armed and _extremely_ dangerous. He might still be in here.’

Even as he relayed all this, he could already hear the mingled wails of police and emergency sirens in the distance. Gutierrez squeezed Brody’s shoulder, badly wanting to undo the cuff linking his friend to the cell, but knowing he shouldn’t act until the EMTs arrived.

‘Take it easy, buddy. Don’t be scared. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.’

Brody moaned.

 

\---

 

Gutierrez watched Brody be carried away on a stretcher, chest tight. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. He couldn’t even look at Malone. The museum still needed to be fully secured, so the medical crew had simply draped a sheet over him decency. His feet poked out from underneath, hanging in mid-air.

‘Nothing in the other wings, Chief,’ reported a heavily armoured SWAT team member, returning from a reconnaissance mission. They had descended on the Center like a host of dark angels, heralding the coming of Chief Andrade. As the most senior Officer present during the crime, Gutierrez had been ordered to stay behind and answer some questions, but he didn’t mind. He would have insisted if he hadn’t been asked. The fearful curiosity he felt toward Hannibal had been replaced with white-hot fury.

‘You’re sure he hasn’t left the building?’ Andrade asked. Gutierrez shook his head.

‘He’d’ve had to go through us to get to the entrance. All the other exits are barred and alarmed.’

‘And intact,’ added the SWAT member.

‘Plus, sir, I think he may be wounded. Those gunshots – Brody must’ve tried to stop him before he passed out.’

Andrade absently stroked his moustache. ‘Where the hell…’

The SWAT team member – Gutierrez thought he recognised his voice, thought he was probably Johnson, but the uniforms made it so hard to tell – the SWAT team member held his earpiece close, listening intently. What little of his face could be seen looked grim. ‘Chief. North-Eastern hall. We found Malone’s head. And a couple feet away, a ventilation grate’s missing its screws.’

Slowly, the three men raised their eyes to the ceiling, as though they could see through the pockmarked surface to inspect the pipes and shafts hidden above.

‘Son of a bitch,’ Andrade muttered. ‘Alright. Johnson, you guys try to flush him out. Smoke, whatever. I’ll call for the thermal camera. Gutierrez, you come with me. You’ve seen enough action for one day.’

‘I wanna stay,’ Gutierrez said quickly. ‘If I can, Chief. I feel okay. I bet Johnson could use the help.’

Mummified in his gear, Johnson nodded vaguely, but Andrade shook his head.

‘You’re a good guy, Javier, but this is over both our heads. We’ve already lost one man, maybe two. You’ll be more use to us resting up at home so you’re in shape to come back next week. Alright?’ Crestfallen, Gutierrez nodded curtly. Andrade clapped him on the shoulder, squeezed it. ‘You go get your stuff and then I’ll have a car drive you back.’

Although unhappy about it, Gutierrez knew he could hardly protest, so he saluted his Chief and headed to the staff locker room.

Another man fully kitted out in SWAT stood before it, a picture repeated at all the doors in the building right now, but the inside of the locker room was empty. Gutierrez only had his uniform jacket and mobile phone in there, so it should have been a matter of seconds, but this was the first time he’d been alone since the escape. A wave of guilt and sorrow washed over him, saturated his skin and his lungs, and it was so guttural he doubled up as if he’d been punched, clapping a hand over his mouth to keep himself from vomiting. His body was wracked with what he thought were nauseous convulsions, until he surprised himself with a torrent of helpless, desperate tears.

‘Fuck,’ he croaked out, blindly feeling for a bench and collapsing like a sandcastle at high tide. ‘Fuck, fuck, _fuck_! Mike, Sam –‘ But he was overcome with sobs. He buried his head in his hands, dimly grateful to the man outside the door for not checking in. _Fuck_. Gutierrez could’ve stopped it. Should’ve looked into the cell room when the guys were late from the breakfast shift. Should’ve –

Rattling.

Gutierrez’s tears froze up from the sudden ice in his veins.

He glanced up. Rattling. Again. Faint, but undeniable. Inside the ceiling.

And even fainter, barely audible – the unmistakeable sound of a human moan.

His hand travelled from his face down to his side, closed around the grip of his Glock. He didn’t know if he was moving slowly, or if hyperawareness was stretching time beyond his usual senses. He raised his gun, just a fraction, just enough to flip the safety off.

Rattling.

Gutierrez swung his arms up and fired a volley of shots upward, dotting the ceiling with lines of holes wherever he thought Hannibal might be. Powdered plaster snowed down from above. He was breathing hard. The door slammed open to reveal the guard posted outside, the fabric of his mouth moving mutely, and Gutierrez didn’t know why until he realised his ears were ringing.

The white particles drifting down were disturbed by the first of many long, sticky drips of blood.

 

\---

 

It took a good while to get the body out of the ventilation shaft. Dragging him out one way or the other was too labour-intensive and time-consuming, given his dead weight, so after establishing exactly where he lay, they removed a section of the crumbling ceiling panels and used a circular saw to cut the pipe just over his head and under his feet. Standing next to Andrade, Gutierrez watched tensely as several officers carefully lowered the excised section of the ventilation shaft and angled it diagonally to let the body slide out. Blood poured out onto the linoleum floor, followed by Hannibal’s feet, in the prison-issue laceless sneakers, then his grey-blue uniform trousers, his torso – bearing a galaxy of perforations – and finally, his head and outstretched arms. Lying on his stomach, he flopped face-down onto the plastic sheet spread out on the ground, motionless. Blood had soaked into his clothes, clumped his hair together into a red and brown mass. The forensic pathologist took a few photographs, then deftly turned Hannibal over.

Gutierrez’s hands started shaking. His mouth went dry.

Because now, now he could see that this man.

This man.

This man wasn’t Hannibal Lecter.

Because this man had been stuffed into the pipes, badly injured, had at some point awoken and groggily crept through the cramped tunnels in search of help.

And earlier, in the ambulance speeding to the Vanderbilt University Medical Center, the EMT turned away from Brody’s supine body to communicate his vital statistics to the hospital.

And Brody sat up, hooked his thumbs under his chin, peeled off the flayed skin, and calmly unplugged himself from the machines measuring his condition.

And the EMT, hearing the persistent beep warning her of something gone wrong, turned to find herself face to face with Hannibal Lecter.

 

\---

 

She’d been bracing herself since she got into the hired car. No, since before that – since she’d boarded the plane to Charleston. Maybe since Ardelia wired over the coordinates. But no matter how much she’d played the moment over in her mind, she still broke out in a sweat when the roadsign for the US-19 rose into view. Because she knew that only fifty miles north of her current destination, Uncle Gene would be at work on the farm. And try as she might, she’d never forget zooming down that very same road thirteen years ago, with a backpack full of camping gear and the girl she loved asleep by her side.

It would be simple to stop by Fishers Crossing in the evening, but turning up unannounced felt awkward. Uncle Gene wasn’t a bogeyman. He’d done his duty and raised Clarice to adulthood, just as he agreed to do when he took her in. Following the aborted escape attempt, his prior enthusiasm for teaching her the ropes of running a farmstead was replaced with unsubtle hints that she should dress more feminine, take pleasure in clothes and makeup and religion, as though incompetence would render her heterosexual. Her sexuality hung over the household like the sword of Damocles, quivering ominously whenever she mentioned a haircut or brought a female friend over. They never spoke of it. They hadn’t _spoken_ in two years, communicating solely through a short email exchange roughly every four months. Clarice did want to see him again. She thought of how he’d brushed her hair with his clumsy, rough hands, how he’d beamed at her when she started bringing back straight As, how he’d shed a few tears at her high school graduation, and a lot more when she finished her Bachelor’s. Maybe she should have tried harder. Or maybe that was self-hating crap and _he_ should’ve fucking tried harder.

But he was the closest she had to a father, and she missed him. And still, she wouldn’t talk to him.

Because she was older now, less afraid, less uncertain, and she’d show up in her wranglers and her button-up and her barbershop haircut and speak about Quantico and mention Ardelia and Hannibal and everything she’d been mulling over for the past couple of months. And Uncle Gene would maybe smile, nod, try to accept it, maybe even succeed – but in his eyes, she’d see disappointment at her failure. Her failure to remain in West Virginia and be proud of her roots. Her failure to be what he considered a woman. Her failure to keep her mother alive after her father passed.

Her failure to keep _his sister_ alive.

Clarice met her own eyes in the rear-view mirror and redirected her attention towards the road with an impatient sigh. Thick forest lined the US-19, intermittently giving way to trailer homes and big-rig parking lots as she skirted the edges of Oakhill, Hico, Mt Nebo, until she saw the sign welcoming her to the city of Summersville.

Driving through the sparse housing leading into town was strangely nostalgic. Many a weekend vacation had been spent on the banks of Summersville Lake, or treading the well-worn floors of the local Civil War museum. They’d even taken Jenny along, in simpler times. They’d sit by the lake in their colourful one-piece bathing suits, sharing a large strawberry milkshake in a takeaway cup while Gene lounged nearby sipping a beer. Jenny smelled of grass and earth, and the sun on her pale hay-coloured hair was almost blinding. Even then, at only ten or eleven, Clarice knew she loved her.

Returning to this place to look for Buffalo Bill left a sour taste in her mouth.

She had Kit Carney’s address, along with a few details about her and the disappeared Delia Jones. She knew where the police station was. Waiting for a green light, she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and thought about who to approach first. The Carneys had been interviewed exhaustively once their daughter’s death was linked to Bill, and again when the search intensified. Clarice wasn’t sure how open they’d be to more talk – or what else they could really teach her that the FBI didn’t already have. Delia Jones was an enigma, the last of her line and an introvert who cared about God and little else. Police officers in major cities often distrusted the FBI, if they weren’t openly hostile, and Clarice knew this tended to be worse in smaller communities. None of the options she had available was particularly promising.

The lights changed. Rounding a corner, Clarice spotted a sign pointing her to the nearest church. Despite lingering guilt over not attending a service since leaving Fishers Crossing, there were few things she wanted less than a visit to the local Baptist congregation, let alone the Methodist and Catholic churches she knew to be just a few streets over. Her eyes caught the rear-view mirror again. In a flash, she recalled the aged, popping eyes staring out of yellow liquid, Delia’s mouth hanging half open as if pleading for mercy. And it hit her.

Delia Jones was an avid believer. In such a comparatively small community, it wasn’t impossible that she and the Carneys had attended the same church. And church communities ran on gossip.

Clarice glanced at the sign in her side mirror, and looked for a way to double back.

It took some fishing to find the right place. She tried a direct approach at the Catholic church, hoping the priest would follow his training and bow to the ethereal authority of the FBI, but all she got was a frosty reception and a curt dismissal on the basis that no, neither the Carneys nor Delia Jones were part of this denomination.

She tried being folksy with the Baptists, drawing on long, painful hours spent worshipping in the warehouse used by the Sutton ministry. Though this crowd was happy to talk, she soon found out neither party, whom she professed to be her distant cousins, were among this particular denomination either. It took almost twenty minutes to duck out without revealing her true agenda, and she had to promise to swing by on Sunday to sample Brenda’s home-made pretzels after the service.

Only the Methodist church remained, a sweet little red-brick building on a patch of grass. Okay. Game face on.

‘Hi?’ Clarice said, peering through the open doors. An older woman looked up from a vase of white flowers, surprised.

‘Hi, sweetheart,’ she said, laying the watering can down. ‘If you’re lookin’ for a service, I’m ‘fraid there ain’t one t’day.’

‘That’s okay. I’m jus’ stoppin’ in town for a spell, checkin’ out the sights.’ Clarice observed the brightly lit room with its clean surfaces, domestic decorations, soft pastel tones. It was homey, the sort of community church she’d seen in religious comics. ‘You got a real nice place, ma’am. Feels comfortable.’

The woman smiled proudly. ‘Try t’keep it that way. Some folks got nowhere t’come back to. W’like t’think they can always count on us, ‘specially when the goin’ gets tough.’

‘Wouldn’ think there’d be too much to tough out somewhere like Summersville. But y’always remember places sunnier’n they are when y’only visited ‘em as a kid, I guess.’ The woman nodded, and though her disposition remained friendly, there was a hint of something morose in her features. ‘Ya’ll dealin’ with the usual stuff?’

‘The usual?’

‘Opioids.’

‘Oh! No, thank goodness – well, not more’n anywhere else ‘round here. We manage. Hardest’s watchin’ the real young folk comin’ in for needle exchange or NA, the girls with the babies… but we manage.’

Unbidden, Jenny’s profile sprung to the forefront of Clarice’s mind, skin and hair shades of blue in the night. Would she have a child now, a family? An addiction, inherited from her parents, passed on to her own offspring? She swore she’d never touch the stuff, but they’d both said a lot of things back then. The urge to ask this stranger if, by some cosmic miracle, she knew a blonde called Jennifer Lewis, had seen her in church or in Walmart or just passing through – that urge was so strong Clarice had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from blurting it out. It was too late. It was impossible. It was, as she herself thought of it, a lifetime ago.

Clarice smiled tightly. ‘Glad t’hear it. Certainly causin’ its share a’ havoc in my neck a’ the woods. What’s the trouble ‘round here? Heard rumours ‘bout a couple… incidents.’

The woman lowered her gaze and rearranged the flowers, picking out the ones starting to droop. ‘Every town’s got its hiccups.’

Clarice paused. She plucked the FBI identification out of her pocket and handed it over. ‘I ain’t gonna lie, ma’am. I’m lookin’ into the death of Kit Carney.’ The woman studied the card, wide-eyed. ‘Sorry I didn’ tell you earlier. S’hard to talk to people if the first thing they see’s Bureau ID.’

‘Y’need me to tell you where t’find the Carneys?’ she asked, returning the document. She was tenser, but not closed off. She trusted the secret service. ‘They don’t live too far –‘

‘No, no, ‘ppreciate it, but we got all the blood we could get outta that stone, so to speak. No, I’m actually investigatin’ another angle. Need someone who knows the people.’

‘Well, I been helpin’ out here for near forty years!’

‘Great, Ms…’

‘Mrs Hedges, but y’can call me Amber, darlin’.’

‘Amber. You ever had a worshipper here…’ Clarice tapped around her phone to find the missing persons picture, ‘…name a’ Delia Jones?’

The recognition was instant on the older woman’s face. Clarice kept a cool head, but she could do nothing about her heart picking up the pace.

‘Oh, Delia… I hadn’ thought of her in so long, God forgive me. Yes, she came here all the time. Volunteered a lot, even though she needed more help than she could afford t’give… she jus’ up ‘n vanished, one day. Jus’ like that.’

‘She knew Kit Carney at all?’

Amber shook her head. ‘Delia kept to herself, ‘n Kit was only tiny back then… must’a been about ten years ago. Now, ya’ll sure they’re connected? Thought the police reckoned Kit’d been taken by that…’ she lowered her voice. ‘… that Buffalo Bill character.’

‘That’s what we think.’

‘And Delia might’ve?... But… it was so long ago… ‘n Buffalo Bill’s only been –‘

‘Well, I’m tryn’a find out. Sounds like Ms Jones was a bit of a recluse, huh? She got any folks I could speak with?’

Clarice put her phone away and leaned against the pews. Amber was running through her mental rolodex, fingers moving as she counted down. Her hands were crooked from arthritis, knobble and liver-spotted.

‘Well,’ said Amber, ‘closest’s I can figure’s Maureen ‘n her son. Cousins of some kind, one a’ them legal family bonds. Delia wan’t too close, but she let ‘em live in her house after Maureen’s husband passed away, in the mines.’

‘They lived together?’

‘No, Delia rented ‘em the place for a fee. Don’t know how much, but it can’t’ve been a lot. Delia lived in a trailer on the edge a’ town. Liked bein’ in nature, she said, liked it bein’ smaller. Maureen died not too long ago, poor thing, but her boy’s still here. He’s real quiet, but he’s a good kid, he works hard. Might be able t’tell y’more.’

‘Great. Where’s he live?’

Amber toddled to the church doors, motioning for Clarice to follow. The sun was starting to sink into the horizon, and everything looked warm and alive.

‘You’ll wanna keep goin’ straight down that way,’ she pointed to a Northward-bound street, ‘then take a left at the fork ‘n keep goin’. It’s a ways out. When you get to the sign says “quiet sickness,” the house’s only another half-mile up.’

‘”Quiet sickness?”’

Amber nodded. ‘Folks ‘round here still got lung problems from minin’ and cotton spinnin’. Brown lung. In the Summer, when it gets real bad, they like t’sleep out on the porch t’keep cool ‘n let their families rest, cause they can get real noisy. Oh yeah. Real noisy. Feels like you’re drownin’. Like a bathtub plughole in y’r guts. Maureen had it bad. So they put up the sign, let folks passin’ through know to be mindful.’

Placards with that inscription weren’t uncommon in the area, but Clarice had always assumed it was a request for general peace. The context made sense. Gene’s old army buddy, who used to visit a couple of times per year, had wet, laboured breathing, and an oxygen tank on wheels that he trailed around like a pet dog. He’d been trying to build a case against the directors of his old mining company when he was hit by a truck doing 90 in a 40 zone.

‘You’ve helped me more’n you know, Amber. What’s this guy’s name?’

‘Oh, right, ‘course. Jame Gumb. Not _James_. Maureen’n her husband couldn’t spell too good, y’see, but I think it’s kinda quirky, like he is. It suits him.’

‘Alright.’ Clarice stepped outside, and looked over her shoulder to wave Amber goodbye. ‘Thanks again.’

‘You’re welcome, sweetie. If you remember, tell him Amber ‘n Jim say hi, and that the roof’s been just perfect since he fixed it.’

 

\---

 

He’d use her face, this time. The girl had a good-sized body, with big expanses of unblemished skin, but it was when he glimpsed her face in the smoky haze of that Nashville club that Jame decided she was his mark.

Turning off the road and onto the muddy ground of his property, Jame felt sparks of arousal in his groin. One more day. Only one more day, and he could start preparing the transplant. He’d tried hard to preserve Mama’s actual head, but by the time he’d formulated his plan and dug her up, the skin had become unworkable and ruined by the embalming process. Ruined for _his_ purposes.

Jame walked around his station wagon to open the trunk. He’d learned a lot since his first kill. He hadn’t tried to preserve anything of Delia save her head – a thank you to the therapist who’d truly _seen_ him and planted the seeds of his liberation – but then, she was different. She’d been a necessity.

She’d approached him in the driveway one morning, emerging from the trees like the fucking Flatwoods Monster, said she wanted to help, that she’d found out what Maureen did to him and that she’d help him get out of there, that she’d talked it through with his shrink and – _no_.

_NO._

No one would take him away.

And no one could know.

Seeing the life leave her eyes, feeling her grip loosen until her hands dropped off his arms – he’d never felt such a surge of pride and power before. Such freedom. The therapist had been right and that scared Jame terribly. Killing was wrong. He could get caught. Then he’d go to jail and Mama would be alone and that couldn’t happen.

So he discreetly disposed of her headless body and acted none the wiser when police came to investigate. And he kept his newfound desires in check, taking a secret thrill in his hunts and in the mercy killing of small animals Precious brought home.

Until Mama died.

And then…

Then, the dam burst.

For this one, he’d use the face.

Jame took the heavy, industrial-sized bag of salt out of the trunk, and slung it over his shoulder before grabbing the shopping bag containing jugs of battery acid and neatsfoot oil, and a few boxes of baking soda. Mama would be finished, soon. This final supply run should see him through to completion… if he didn’t mess up anymore tanning.

And if he did, well… what was another hunt or two, really? There were candidates on every street corner. He had time. He had all the time in the world.

Nudging the front door open with his elbow, Jame quickly stepped inside and slammed it shut. He was always worried Precious would try to run out, and he looked down at his feet to make sure he wasn’t treading on her.

But she wasn’t there.

She’d be asleep. Whenever she heard a car pull up, she’d be waiting at the door to greet him with a meow and rub about the shins. She’d be in the bedroom, next to Mama. He had to put away his new purchases anyway, so he headed down into the basement.

It was quiet. Sometimes, the girl would be screaming when he arrived. He was glad for the peace. Jame went into the closet that doubled as a tanning room and set the bag of salt down with a grunt. He stocked the shelves with his smaller supplies, and lightly drummed on the skin stretched out near the back wall. It was a long slice made up of most of the last girl’s leg – as far as he knew, that body hadn’t washed up yet, but he only checked infrequently – and it had been drying for two weeks, just about. The basement was kept hot and humid for his babies, and even though this closet was the driest part of the area, it still took the skins a little longer than average to be completely ready. This piece needed another few days. The logistics of treating the face made him uneasy. A wrong move and he’d ruin it. Who knew when he’d run into another girl who looked so much like Mama? Probably best to keep her frozen and practice on his next one first –

‘Hey, mister!’

Jame started, turned to the noise. The cell – where else? – but he couldn’t quite believe it. The girls weren’t supposed to _call_ _him_. Certainly not this many days into confinement. With a mix of curiosity and trepidation, he went past the nursery, into the workshop, and to the far wall holding the heavy metal door to the cell. The viewer was jammed open, but Jame didn’t have time to consider whether he’d left it that way himself, because he looked through and his world froze.

Catherine sat at the very back of the cell, curled up on herself. The black, dank-smelling shirt hung on her body like a magistrate’s gown. Her thick, milky arms were candy-cane striped with gashes, courtesy of the fluffy white cat whining in her arms.

‘How’d you –‘ Jam started, cutting himself off with a gasp when Catherine squeezed Precious tighter.

‘You shouldn’t leave your cat alone all day without something to do. They get bored _fast_. Even old ones like her. They like sniffin’ around. And you – you know what they say about c-cats and curiosity!’

She was trying hard to act tough, but the damn stutter betrayed how utterly, utterly petrified she felt. Precious growled, but she’d given up resisting, merely glowering and breathing fast, her paw-pads wet with fear.

‘Sh’ain’t done nothin’ t’you!’ Jame barked.

‘I didn’t do nothin’ to you either!’ Catherine yelled back, ‘But here we fuckin’ are!’

Furious, Jame darted out to his room for the key to the cell. Leaving the doors open in his wake, he could hear Catherine screaming as he rushed around the basement:

‘I don’t wanna do anything to her, mister! I-I’ve got a cat at home! I just want you to let me _go_ and you’ll get her back! You listening?!’

Jame snatched the key off its hook near his bedroom door, and marched in further to the chest of drawers against the far wall. He yanked open the top drawer, swept Mama’s folded clothes away, and grabbed the pistol he’d inherited from his Daddy. Much better than his decrepit hunting rifle. Just as he took it, a shrill shriek ran through the basement. He sped back to the cell.

Inside, Catherine had Precious clamped under one arm, with the cat’s tail hanging limp at a sharp angle in her hands, snapped near the base. Jame jabbed the key into the lock, missing the hole in his fury and banging the key into the metal over and over.

‘You fuckin’ cunt!’

‘Fuck you! I meant what I said!’ she roared. ‘Just let me go!’

‘I’m gonna rip your fuckin’ _face_ off,’ he growled, discarding the key in favour of shoving his hand through the viewer to point the pistol at her. ‘You’re all the same. Stuck-up, evil _cunts_ who’ll fuck you over soon’s look at you.’

Eyes shining, Catherine held the animal up like a shield and braced herself, trying to shrink herself down to fit behind her.

The doorbell rang.

Shit.

His car was outside. The only people who ever visited would know his schedule. Would know he’d be home and awake. Would hear the crack of the gunshot if he fired.

 _Shit_.

The doorbell rang again, a tinny, persistent sound.

Jame’s eyes met Catherine’s.

‘Not a gotdamn word.’

Her scream was muffled instantly by his closing the viewer.


	12. Teh Tarik

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will finds Hannibal. Clarice finds Catherine.

Will turned his hands this way and that, skin bunching against the tight cuffs, first one way, then the other.

‘Your boyfriend’s being a real pain in the ass, you know that?’

It was easy for body parts to go numb when blood flow was restricted. Moving his fingers helped keep them feeling.

‘I was gonna go to a gig. Had it all lined up. And when we’re a mile out from Nashville, he pulls that shit.’

It wouldn’t take long to drive back to the hangar and fly to Marion. Will glanced at the smoked glass window set into the back doors of the van, tried to gauge the time of day by how bright the sun looked. Though he’d travelled hours, hundreds of miles, he hadn’t seen the outside world at all. He hadn’t since his move to supermax. Every step of the journey to Tennessee had taken place indoors, as if calculated specifically to disorient him. Maybe it was all a lie. Maybe they’d just driven him around the correctional’s grounds to watch his reaction.

‘Hey, you listenin’?’ The tall guard sitting opposite scuffed Will’s foot with his own. ‘Least you could do’s apologise for ruining my night.’

Will didn’t. He kept gazing at the window, quiet. Hopeful.

Faithful.

The curly-haired guard next to him chuckled. ‘Can you blame Lecter? You think _you_ wouldn’t bust outta jail with a wifey like this waiting for you?’ This was punctuated with a quick gesture in Will’s direction.

Stretch scoffed. ‘You’ve gotta be a world-class cocksucker to be worth the trouble, huh?’ Another little kick, harder, more provocative. Will showed no reaction.

Curly laughed now, gritting his teeth to keep his voice down, conscious of how thin the divider was between them and the driver. ‘Jesus, Rich.’

‘Just sayin’…’

Discouraged by Will’s apathetic demeanour, the two guards soon dropped their jibes in favour of general, casual conversation, which joined the rattling of equipment to become fuzzy background noise, with the purr of the van’s motor, the muted bumps of the tires hitting potholes. Will focused on his own breathing, slowed it down, relaxed his muscles. He’d been through this before. His body would know what to do. While he waited,

(hopeful, faithful)

he imagined cool water lapping about his knees, sand like putty under his toes, the sharp temperature divide where skin under the surface became skin caressed by sun and wind. Sinewy, surprisingly scarred hands reaching to hug him from behind, warm weight against his back. An artist’s hands. A surgeon’s hands. A killer’s hands.

Hands like his own.

And then, a pop.

Will only had a millisecond to react to the sound. The guards didn’t hear the muffled shot, didn’t brace for impact, didn’t keep their countenance loose, didn’t protect their heads and necks. Because they hadn’t been expecting it.

Will had.

So when the van veered off the road, tilted the world diagonal with enough force to propel all three passengers against the vehicle’s left wall, Will was the only one prepared for impact. Stretch and Curly, for all their protective gear, flounced and bounced and ragdolled around the car as it went off-balance and slammed onto its side, skidding ahead on the blacktop with an ear-splitting screech until it came to a stop with a judder.

‘Whatta fuck?’ Curly slurred, trying to lift himself up on his elbows without success. Stretch, less rattled, got on his hands and knees and banged his fist against the cracked divider.

‘You there? Ross?’ Bang, bang, bang. He fumbled for his radio, finding it crushed where he’d hit the ground. ‘Shit. Fuck.’ Stretch clambered to Curly and pulled him up by the front of his bullet-proof vest, raising him to a sitting position. Curly hissed. ‘You with me?’

‘Yeah,’ he groaned through gritted teeth. ‘I think – my ribs’re busted.’

‘You gotta be here with me, okay?’ Stretch cast an eye at Will’s crumpled form, seemingly unconscious in the corner. ‘I need you to watch him while I go out. Okay?’

Grimacing, Curly gingerly grabbed his weapon and held it close to his body, pointed at the prisoner. The world spun and the gun shook in his hand, but it was aimed in the correct general direction, and it’d have to do.

Still on his knees, Stretch ambled to the door while searching himself for the keys. Before his shaken mind could remember where to find them, the locks ahead clicked and the right door – with the van being on its side, the top door – swung up to let in a dazzling beam of sunlight. Stretch squeezed his eyes shut, the squinted at the figure outside, strongly backlit and framed by the open doorway. When he noted the colours and outline of the Nashville PD, he sighed with relief.

‘Thank fuck. I was worried that –‘ Stretch glanced back at his colleague with a crooked grin. ‘For a minute there, I thought –‘

That’s as far as he got before the man at the door eased an arm inside and blew the top off Stretch’s skull with a close-range shot to the side of the head. A mist of blood, brain matter, and skull shards sprayed over Will and Curly, who gaped as his colleague’s body collapsed back against the wall, which was formerly the roof.

‘Wha-what the,’ Curly swung his pistol to the stranger, ‘what the _fuck_ –‘

As soon as the barrel was off him, Will pounced on the guard, slapping the gun out of his grasp and tackling him to the floor. He was weaker, of course, much weaker than this man in expensive body armour, but Will had decades of FBI experience on his side, and, most of all, he had no other chances and nothing to lose. Still disoriented, Curly managed only the most cursory resistance as Will flipped him onto his back and crushed his windpipe with the hard, connected centre of his handcuffs. Curly’s face turned almost the same shade as the blood splattered on his body, his tongue and eyes bulging like a stress toy’s, his weak but frantic movements only emptying his lungs faster. Will pressed down longer than necessary. Not for enjoyment, there was no time for that. Just a drive to be thorough.

After almost a minute, Will shuffled to Stretch and retrieved the cuff keys where he’d seen them be hidden earlier, quickly succeeding despite the headless guard’s post-mortem twitches. With a movement he’d practiced often in lucid dreams, he uncuffed himself, then got to his feet and climbed over the closed bottom door into the fresh outside air.

Will shielded his eyes from the light, unused to even the mild, grey brightness of early Winter after so long cloistered in Virginia’s monastery for the morally inadequate. The thin road was flanked on both sides by manicured green grass, then thick, dark trees, perfect for escaping into. Perfect to hide a sniper in. Black marks showed the panicked swerve the van had undertaken to avoid – a police officer on a motorbike, if the debris was anything to go by, bike parts littered from underneath the car back along the road, leading to a splash of black blood at the feet of

Hannibal.

He was older. It showed. His cheeks were more sunken, the lines of his face deeper, his muscles leaner. His tan hair was cut too short, inelegant prison-regulation style. He wore a Nashville PD uniform, soaked in browning blood, topped with a dark blue Officer’s cap he now tossed aside. It was one of the least flattering looks Will had seen him in, but in that moment, it rivalled the great marvels of European art. Hannibal stood firm, unmoving, with those extraordinary hazel eyes boring into Will’s own, shining with wonder and utter longing.

Uncertain, as if in a dream, Will took tentative steps forward until he only stood a foot from Hannibal. He looked back at the smoking carcass of the security vehicle. His heart was beating so hard he felt it might burst, reverberating down his legs, down his arms, up his throat.

‘I’m, uh… I’m having flashbacks to the Dollarhyde case,’ said Will, voice rusty and thick.

‘Should stop meeting like this,’ Hannibal replied neutrally.

‘I heard a shot, I think. Chiyoh?’

Hannibal nodded. ‘She knew about the prison transfer. Came just in case. Aimed at the officer leading the way for the van and caused a chain reaction. There’s a car nearby.’

‘Ah. I guess we should…’ Will motioned vaguely with his chin, indicating that they ought to go.

But neither did.

As gingerly as Will had walked – more warily than Will had ever seen him move before – Hannibal’s hand travelled up through the air, paused for just a second, then softly cupped Will’s unshaven cheek. His hand was warm, soft about the palm – but Will could feel the callouses and the thin marks of hundreds of hours of cutting, dicing, skinning, a dragnet of scars cutting through the haze of medication to collect his devotion, his comfort. He breathed out a shaky sigh and leaned into the touch, placing his own hand over his lover’s heart. It beat strong, defiantly _alive_.

Hannibal’s mouth parted, like he was about to speak, but his features displayed only naked amazement. For once, he was truly lost for words, his emotions manifesting instead in the tears that spilled hot and fat down his cheeks from glimmering eyes.

Will smiled, then grinned. He put his hands on either side of Hannibal’s face, and moving as one, their lips crushed together into an insatiable, intoxicating kiss.

 

\---

 

Clarice shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The guy was taking his sweet time. She’d touched the hood of his car on her way to the door, checked that it was still warm. But he could be out for a walk. Or he could be a deep sleeper. The bell was _heavy duty_ , though, crystal clear even on the porch. She pressed the buzzer again.

While she waited, she checked her personal phone. No Wi-Fi – big surprise – but decent reception. Ardelia had texted a few times:

  * You ok?
  * You gotta answer crawfords calls c
  * He’s getting antsy :s
  * Stop being awol when you can ok
  * ♥



It was stupid how much an Android heart emoji could mean when the right person sent it.

Clarice sighed, toying with the device, tipping it back and forth between her thumb and forefinger. This whole _thing_ was stupid. What the hell was she trying to prove out here on her own? What the fuck was she doing back in West Virginia? Origins, he said. Lot of good _origins_ had ever done her. And where the goddamn Christ was this Gumb character?

The phone almost slipped out of her grasp when it buzzed. Ardelia again.

  * Clarice holy shit



There followed a link to a CNN news article, which Clarice opened only to be faced with the sad Google broken link cartoon. No Wi-Fi. Duh. She nibbled her bottom lip. For Ardelia to send something like this, now, it could be related to Buffalo Bill, or it could even be –

No. It couldn’t.

She saw him just a few hours ago.

Burying her creeping unease, she wrote back:

  * No internet. What happened?



It’d be just like that son of a bitch to break out, but it wasn’t possible. Lecter was high-risk – arguably the _highest_ -risk prisoner in the United States right now – and appropriate measures would have been taken. The nibble on her lip turned into a hard bite. Senator Martin _was_ trying to keep the transfer on the down-low. Less staff. A mish-mash of private and public security officers. Inmates _were_ always more likely to bolt while being moved. And he had the drive, after all, the motivation. But how would he escape? He didn’t have any tools. Everyone knew his face, his crimes.

There was no way.

Come on, Dee.

The front door opened. Clarice clicked the off switch on her screen and pocketed the phone in one smooth motion, plastering on the usual affable smile. Friendly without being _too_ friendly. The mobile phone hummed in her breast pocket. She’d check after she spoke to this guy. Ten, twenty minutes, tops.

Jame Gumb stood just beyond the threshold of his house, mostly shielded by the door. She could see that he was tall, that he was well-built, and that he didn’t exactly exude hospitality. An odour wafted out, of mould and staleness and cat piss. Her grin endured.

‘Afternoon. I’m lookin’ for Mr Jame Gumb?’

She saw him frown slightly at the pitch of her voice, saw him give her the once-over to confirm her gender.

‘What’s it about?’ he drawled. His voice was low, but not as much as his physique had her expect. Somehow, it reminded her of a kid mimicking an adult. Clarice flashed her ID.

‘Special Agent Clarice Starling. Sorry to bother you, Mr Gumb – you _are_ Mr Gumb?’

He nodded.

‘Mr Gumb. Amber Hedges sent me down your way. Said y’might be able t’help me with somethin’.’

The mention of Amber’s name seemed to relax him somewhat. The door opened more, giving Clarice a clear view of Jame. Not that it did much good. If she’d pulled up a composite sketch of the average central West Virginia guy, she’d get Jame Gumb. Maybe a hair less tired, a smidge fatter. Otherwise, he was completely average.

The smell was stronger now, but Clarice was used to worse.

‘We, ah, we think there’s a new lead in the disappearance a’ your cousin, Delia Jones. I was hopin’ t’ask you some questions.’

‘Oh… cousin Delia’s been missin’ for a grip. How’d the feds get involved?’

‘Well, I can’t go into details, y’understand…’ his fist tightened around the door handle again, and she spoke quickly, ‘… but as her last known relative, ya’ll’ve the right to know it’s connected t’Kit Carney.’

Jame frowned, clearly thinking the name over, so she added:

‘Kit Carney’s one of Buffalo Bill’s first known victims. The serial killer. Carneys folks ‘n Ms Jones attended the same services. Mrs Hedges says you would’ve seen Kit Carney at church with your mother, ‘fore she passed.’

‘Hm… no, I…’ Jame trailed off, mulled it over some more. Then, a light switched on somewhere inside his head, and his rugged face was split by a bright white smile, at odds with his wear-and-tear appearance. Clarice could clearly see the startling whiteness of his eyes for the first time, too. ‘Oh, wait. Was she that great big fat person?’

Clarice’s mouth dropped open before she caught herself: ‘She was a bigger girl, yeah. We think knowin’ more ‘bout one’ll help us with the other. Delia Jones’s a reclusive woman. If y’got any sorta info I could use…’

She felt Jame’s gaze on her again. Scanning her. Judging her? What right did he have to judge _her_? The weight of her gun in its holster, nestled under her armpit, suddenly felt as comforting as a big guard dog.

‘She kept t’herself. But Mama stored some a’ her stuff in here, from her trailer, diaries ‘n pictures ‘n such. Y’want those?’

‘That’d be real helpful, sir.’

‘A’ight.’ Jame took a step into the house and motioned for her to follow. ‘S’kinda messy in here, it’ll take a minute. Better come in. Cold out.’

It wasn’t. In fact, sweat beaded on Clarice’s forehead, collected under her arms and breasts. But she nodded.

‘Much obliged.’

She could only go a few feet past the threshold before the waste cluttering the floor reached halfway up her shins. Empty boxes, bags, broken electronics, magazines – decades’ worth of _stuff_ took up every possible surface of the house, dispersed in peaks and valleys like a natural landscape. It wasn’t quite like the hoarder homes Clarice had seen before. There didn’t appear to be a deliberate acquisition of useless artefacts, or a hint of the shame such behaviour usually entailed. It was more like a tangible summary of a life, told in the byproducts of existence, and Jame Gumb moved through it with nonchalance and experienced ease, a modern Diogenes well-acquainted with the secret paths carved into the trash. Clarice remained by the front door as he headed into the living room and hauled a box out of a tall pile to root through it. She eyed the sea of abandoned childhood toys, medical supply packaging, and household appliance manuals that piled up into physics-defying towers along the walls.

‘Y’want some water or somethin’?’ Jame called. The prospect of consuming anything in here was unnerving, despite the lack of rot or true _dirt_. Clarice smiled at his back.

‘I’m good, thanks.’

‘Know they’re in one a’ these…’ He opened another box. ‘Might wanna siddown for a spell.’

As he explored the contents of one box, he’d carelessly dump its contents to the side, then stack it on a previously opened box before moving on to the next. The items seemed to melt straight into the existing carpet of clutter. Clarice let her eyes sweep over the home.

A few well-loved fuzzy toys confirmed the presence of a cat, and she hoped it wasn’t mummified somewhere among the debris. The open entrance to the living room was on Clarice’s left. Across her was a staircase leading up, the steps as crowded with trash as everywhere else, save for a thin pathway in the centre. On the right, another doorway led to the kitchen, which was even busier than the rest of the space. A closed door was set into the far wall, leading to a pantry or the basement. The floor around it was clear, evidence of its frequent use. Empty Hungry Man sleeves lay trampled near the microwave, but the stove and sink were strangely clean – no plates and cutlery covered in crusty food, no ancient forgotten pot on the hob. Like cats, Jame appeared to have stringent, but inexplicable standards of cleanliness, littering his home with trash but keeping it free of organic materials that could rot. Smiling a little at this thought, Clarice made to turn back to Jame when she saw it.

On top of a hill of junk, halfway between her and the kitchen, was a colourful plastic toy truck. It looked like it was driving through a craggy mountain hill, as though it had been placed on purpose, and if Jame struck her as at all whimsical, she might have suspected he had. In the truck’s bed lay its cargo of a single, flowery insect leg.

Every muscle in Clarice’s body was tense. She was no entomologist, but she’d scrutinised Jimmy Price’s orchid mantis photographs, and this abandoned appendage certainly fit with what she’d seen. Her breath slowed, deepened. The smell of mildew permeated her nostrils. She controlled her intake of air to keep herself logical, calm, and she slowly turned her head toward the living room. Jame continued as he had been, crouched over his belongings. Jame, a tall, muscular white man approaching middle age, with clear disdain for women and a history well-suited to instability and maternal abuse.

Clarice began to move her right hand to her left side.

‘You see much of her when she was still around, Mr Gumb?’

‘Hm… n’really.’ He spoke without looking at her. ‘Like I said, she was a loner.’

‘Heard from Amber ya’ll rented this place from her.’

‘She’n my mother came to an understandin’ after m’father passed.’

‘Mighty nice a’ her.’

‘Sure.’

‘Makes a person wonder who’d do wrong to someone like her.’

‘People said she was crazy. Prolly someone took advantage. Dangerous folks out there, ma’am.’

Clarice scoffed, making sure Jame could hear her. ‘Y’only gotta look at what happened t’Kit Carney ‘n the rest a’ the girls. Sorry sight.’

‘Sure is.’

‘Don’t envy the guys found the bodies.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Jame spoke in a distracted tone. ‘Poor cousin Delia.’

‘Poor Delia. Good church-goin’ woman… didn’t deserve t’have that happen to her.’

‘No ma’am.’

‘Can y’imagine havin’ to find a body like that? In that state?’

‘Oughta cut him up too.’

‘Head first, huh?’

Clarice closed her fist around the grip of her gun. Jame’s motions stopped. He sat on his haunches, very still, and for a second, neither said a word nor moved a muscle. A twitch in Jame’s countenance was all Clarice needed to whip her pistol out of its holster and shout

‘Don’t move!’

but before she finished, Jame grabbed a broken kettle from the ground and hurled it towards her head at full strength. It zipped past, dangerously close, would’ve hit her if she hadn’t dodged, firing a shot as she ducked, the bullet bouncing off the skirting board to embed itself in Jame’s calf.

With a primal scream, he picked an encyclopedia off the stairs and threw it at Clarice, following it up with a swipe through the waist-level trash to spray with her broken knick-knacks and old coins. She was on her knees on the ground, vulnerable, tossed herself to the side to avoid the heavy object – and swore when the sharp edge of the hard-backed book clipped her shoulder, tearing suit and shirt and skin. By the time she was back on her feet, Jame was halfway through the basement door, bounding down the steps.

Clarice scrambled for the front door, instincts filling every cell in her body with the need to _get out_ and call for backup – but through the black gateway to the basement, she heard a woman scream crystal clear and fit to break glass. Catherine. _Shit_.

She grabbed her work phone and hit the speed-dial for Jack. He picked up almost instantly, as she knew he would.

‘Clarice, where the _hell_ –‘

‘I’ve found him, I’ve found Bill. I’ve found Catherine Martin. I’m outside Summersville, West Virginia. Phone’s got my coordinates, yeah?’

‘We’re on our way. Go to the police –‘

‘I’m goin’ in, Jack.’

‘ _Don’t_ –‘

‘She’ll die.’

And Clarice hung up, tossed the phone out on the porch so the Bureau wouldn’t lose its trace when she went underground, and ran to the basement.

The temperature shift was drastic, worsening as she headed further down. It was _hot_ , almost tropical, and the smell of mildew was only barely overpowered by the sharp scent of chemicals. This area of the house was the reverse of the surface. Everything was tidy and organised – in this room, at least. It was a simple basement room, with a washer and dryer and sundry supplies. Four doors dotted the walls, all closed save for the one directly in front of the stairs, which sat ajar. A trail of red splotches disappeared into it, and a white light shone brightly through the cracks. Fully expecting a trap, Clarice held her Glock tighter and cautiously approached the room.

A kicked in door and security scan revealed it to be secure. No Jame. Instead, the space was filled with glass tanks, mounted along the walls, each with its heat lamp and mossy, plant-rich interior. Pink and white orchids danced among the leaves, every flower sporting a pair of long, ruby alien eyes pointed directly at Clarice. If she was quiet, she could hear faint noises from the nearest tank, the clicking of insect legs, the flutter of wings. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, though it should have been the least of her worries.

To her right, another door, closed this time. The bloody trail petered off around the centre of the mantis room, headed towards it. Gun at the ready, she paced rapidly up to it and repeated the routine. Kick. Draw. Secure.

A workshop. Tools both sharp and blunt hung on hooks, with two heavy wooden tables taking up most of the floor. Though the surfaces were clean, a tell-tale patina on the tabletops left little doubt as to the purpose of the place. Two tall plastic trash cans were tucked into a corner, next to a coiled water hose and a massive sack of bran oats, implements that Clarice’s youth had taught her were for taxidermy. A concrete chamber stood against the far wall. It was clearly a recent addition, an ingenious bit of DIY – excellent quality, but DIY all the same – and stuck out from its surroundings like a hunk of clay in a dollhouse. Through the open viewer of its metal door, Clarice heard quiet, high-pitched sobbing.

The relief she felt on peering inside and seeing Catherine Packard – thinner, dirty, scratched up, but defiantly _alive_ – it was a physical, whole-body relief that would have had her sink to her knees if she wasn’t on high alert. Catherine held a fluffy white cat close to her chest, its fur clumped with her blood. She jumped and clutched the critter tighter when Clarice whispered:

‘Catherine!’

The cat made a noise, but remained still. Catherine blinked, eyes red and wild, defensive. Measuring if it was a trick.

‘FBI,’ Clarice continued. ‘We’re gon’ get you outta here.’ She twisted the door handle, rattling the lock, to no avail. ‘Y’know where he keeps the key?’

Catherine kept staring at her, lips slightly parted. The mistrust was obvious, but there was something else, too. A spark of hope. The spark that had let her survive this ordeal.

‘ _Catherine_ ,’ Clarice whispered, more urgently. Catherine blinked hard, shook her curls.

‘N… no. Is he still here? What’s goin’ on?’

Shit. She couldn’t go snooping for keys with that shark swimming around. She needed to get the situation under control.

‘We’re workin’ on it. I’ll be back in two shakes, okay?’

‘Don’t leave!...’ the naked desperation in Catherine’s voice, the way she surged forward, the way her voice cracked – it tugged at Clarice’s heart, echoes of Jenny in her mind. She raised her index finger to her mouth, and darted back to the mantis room.

No sooner had she crossed back over, the overhead lights went out and the world was plunged into darkness. Catherine yelped. Before Clarice even had time to register the animal fear penumbra brought her, a flash of light and a BANG tore through the dusk, a glass tank shattered. Wispy sounds of mantis wings, heavy footfalls speeding in her direction.

Clarice aimed her gun at where she expected him to be, fired twice. The rounds made her ears ring, and in the millisecond flashes of light they provided, she saw she’d missed Jame and noted his hands on the end of the tank shelves, at the other door. When blackness returned, she knew what he’d been doing: as he finished wrecking the support structure, the room was filled with the icy screams of tank after tank shattering on the floor. Dozens of fat, panicked insects flew onto Clarice’s face, scuttled across her hands, her chest, bringing the disorientation to a boil until –

The explosion of pain in her left arm.

Clarice felt the agony of the bullet before she heard the shot, before she glimpsed Jame’s cold determination over the weapon pointed at her. They were one-one for bullet wounds. Searing heat burned a tunnel through her muscles, grazed the bone – but came out the other side, embedding itself in the wall. It hurt like hell, but she could still move the arm – barely. Her shirt and jacket became heavy with blood, stuck to her skin. She was on a time limit before she passed out.

She was getting her bearings back when a weight slung itself around her waist, easily raised up her slight frame. Jame held her in a vice grip, holding on while she cursed and scratched at his hands.

‘You’re dead,’ he grunted into her ear.

Praying for a hit, Clarice kicked out her leg and brought down her heel as hard as she could, aiming for where she’d shot him earlier, and – yes! Jame yelped, relaxed his hold, not so much that she could escape, but enough to wriggle loose the arm holding her weapon, raise it up, and squeeze the trigger right next to his right ear.

Clarice hit the ground heavily, feet first, but she stumbled and fell against the hard surface of a wall. Glass crunched underfoot. Her hand was empty, her elbow felt like bone grinding on bone – recoil had propelled her forearm down, straining the muscle, making her drop the Glock. She was more disoriented than ever; the tinnitus from the gun’s roar combined with the darkness and blood loss to create excruciating dizziness. But she was free. Over the din of her ringing ears, she could make out Jame’s screeching. The bullet must have hit something. Shot his ear off. She couldn’t tell.

Feeling her way along the wall, Clarice staggered out into the central basement room. Light filtered in from the door at the top of the stairs, restored some of her sight. Logic told her to flee, but she wasn’t running on logic now. Not really. She was running on instinct, on pure survival mode, on a burning desire to save any further girls from sacrifice to this insane man’s whims. A thin blue line shone under the door furthest away. Like a moth to a flame, head swimming, she sped over and slammed the door shut behind her, barricading it with a chair propped up under the handle.

A quick survey showed this to be a bedroom, but not one that fit a man like Jame. The fabrics and colours were better suited to a woman approaching old age, and the paraphernalia matched. It looked almost staged, as if rebuilt from memory or from a photograph. An oxygen tank near the desk, makeup strewn across the vanity, knitting needles and supplies on the boxy TV set. That was the source of the light, the screen stuck on electric blue, casting a glow on everything around it, especially the old, lumpy double bed right in front of

oh, christ

Aw, _fuck_.

On the right side of the bed, sitting up and tenderly tucked in, was a doll the size of Clarice. She wore a pale pink nightgown over skin made up of a dozen minutely different shades of beige. The stitching binding the leather patches of her hide varied from clumsy to expertly done, proof of Jame’s progress as his experience grew. Her hair, shiny brown locks cascading down her back and over her chest, framed the space where her face should be. Two midnight blue holes stared out from empty eye sockets, set into a skull. Her hands were by her sides over the covers, neatly placed beside her thighs, but where one arm was expertly upholstered, the other remained as bare as her face, human ivory tinged aquamarine by the television set.

Building a better mother.

Processing the scene in dazed horror, Clarice was aware of the sound of Jame making his way to the bedroom, the STOMP and draaag of his footsteps. She knew she could never truly understand what happened in this house, what combination of genetics and circumstance conspired to turn what _must_ have started as a normal child into this kind of man. But she also knew that no upbringing, no cruel adults or years of torture or shitty cards dealt, _nothing_ excused this.

And she didn’t have to excuse it.

What she had to do was survive, and let all his potential victims survive too.

The door shook hard. Jame was hitting it with his shoulder, ramming into it at full force. The chair juddered, inching closer to falling down. A pause. Then, Clarice had to jump onto the bed to avoid a volley of gunshots through the door that penetrated the mattress, sent mirror fragments flying, but largely ended up in the walls and wooden furniture. She needed to act fast.

Moving on autopilot, slightly delirious, she clambered up the bed and hauled the necro-mannequin from under the sheets. Bracing one foot on its belly and another against the headboard, she grabbed hold of the edge of its scalp and pulled with all her might, the fire in her bullet wound overpowered by the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Though she couldn’t hear him over her ringing ears, she was sure Jame was still fiddling with the door. She felt a crack. The first stitch along the figure’s head popped, starting a chain reaction that soon let Clarice tear the scalp right off, momentum tossing her back on the bed with the doll’s long hair falling on her face. It only took seconds to disrobe the mannequin and slip the large nightgown on over Clarice’s own body. She grabbed the two metal knitting needles off the television set. Standing before the door, which shook with every blow, something in the depths of Clarice’s mind urged her to pray. She clutched the needles tight.

No one to pray to when you only believe in yourself.

She fit the leather scalp over her own short hair, quickly finger-brushed the curls over her shoulders, smoothed down the bangs until they tickled her forehead. She grabbed the lipstick off the vanity, quickly smeared it on her lips. She swept the chair away with a well-placed kick, and swung open the door.

Jame stood on the other side, of course, rearing back for another try. His face snapped up, and in a second, Clarice saw his white-hot hatred morph into wide-eyed, slack-jawed amazement.

Even as she lunged at him, Clarice saw his thin lips mouth the word ‘Mama,’ a mix of pleasure and terror in his pale eyes.

His eyes.

Clarice tackled him to the floor, and, raising both hands at once, she took aim for the shining white pearls in his face, arced the knitting needles through the air, plunged them squarely into Jame Gumb’s pupils.

His eyelids closed like lips around a straw, and with a terrible shriek that reached even her damaged ears, he began to twist his body around to shake her off. But the rage inside Clarice had flared up into a wildfire that spread through her bloodstream, fuelled by the injustice and the sadness and the horror and the _gall_ of the man before her, and her efforts mounted until the needles popped through and penetrated his frontal lobe.

Jame gripped her nightgown, but there was no intent behind it, just the spasms of a ruined brain. Fists resting on his orbits, Clarice put her whole weight into keeping the needles in place, ensuring the severing of as many neural connections as possible. The basement was silent, save for her pained grunting and the thrashing of Jame’s body on concrete.

When his hold slackened and he himself stilled, Clarice didn’t feel pride, or relief, or anything approaching a sense of accomplishment. All she felt was an intense fatigue. With difficulty, she unclasped her hands from the needles, cramps extending up to her elbows. Like snail trails descending the sides of his face, a mix of blood, vitreous fluid, and tears trickled out of Jame’s eyes. Clarice’s hands were wet.

Breathing hard, she rolled off the man’s body, and lay on her side next to him. The red veil slowly lifted from her vision, and little by little, the world became fuzzy as her consciousness slipped. Absently, she thought she was lucky the rush of terror had carried her through. She’d avoided the worst of the agony of the bullet wound. Perhaps the wetness on her hands was her own blood.

Catherine was calling out, panic in her voice. Outside, though Clarice couldn’t hear them, police sirens sounded in the distance.

As her world faded into warm nether, her final thought was of Ardelia, grinning brightly over her, naked and sweating and gazing down with crinkled eyes that spoke of love and a dazzling future.

And then, Clarice Starling blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter's gonna be posted sooner than usual, in two days or so, just to keep the momentum fairly strong.


	13. Rumah Terbuka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All’s well that ends well.

The FBI badge was like a miniature sun. Catching the almost white January light, it glimmered brilliant shades of gold when shifted around the palm, its weight comforting and real. Encased in black leather underneath her credentials, it was a far cry from the temporary ID Clarice had lugged around during the Buffalo Bill investigation, and she hadn’t stopped grinning since Jack handed it to her, a twinkle in his eye. The crowd of graduates, clad in formal black attire and already looking the part of the Hollywood FBI Agent, dispersed from the spot on the green where they had taken their class picture, gathering in groups with their friends and family, wiling away the minutes with selfies and banter until it was time for the party at the Academy.

‘Mind your teeth don’t fall out, smilin’ like that.’

Clarice closed the wallet, eclipsing her badge. She slipped it into her suit’s inside pocket and directed her toothy, goofy grin at Gene.

With the profound terror she’d experienced in Jame Gumb’s basement, she’d felt genuine frustration at how anxious the sight of her uncle’s number made her. She’d grown beyond that. She’d had her trial by fire. When Ardelia left the hospital room to get some coffee, Clarice keyed the number into her phone like she'd done a dozen times before, and as with every past attempt, as her conviction to talk to him grew, so did her apprehension.

She was still staring at the screen when Ardelia came back.

‘No luck?’ she asked, perching on the side of Clarice’s bed. Clarice grunted. Ardelia put the coffees down on the bedside table and nodded at the device. ‘Babe. You want me to press the call button?’

‘No,’ Clarice said immediately, voice a little high. She sighed. ‘No. I gotta do it. I want… even if he don’t come, I wanna ‘least’ve tried.’

She felt Ardelia’s fingers stroke her cheek and looked up, taking in the concern on her girlfriend’s face.

‘You know you don’t _have_ to invite him, right? It’s okay not to have him there. It’s okay not to forgive.’

‘Y-yeah. I…’ Clarice covered Ardelia’s hand with her own. ‘I know. But he’s… he’s like my dad, Dee. Known him longer th’n my real dad. An’ I l…’ Unbidden tears threatened to spill. She blinked them back, embarrassed. ‘I love him, I guess. I dunno if he loves me.’

Ardelia didn’t say anything. Clarice had to let go of her hand, the healing bullet wound needing her to rest, but Ardelia kept her soft palm on Clarice, sliding down from her face to her shoulder, half slipping under the collar of her loose pyjama top to squeeze her pale, freckled shoulder. Clarice sniffed, forced a smile, avoided Ardelia’s gaze.

‘Only one way t’find out.’ Her thumb hovered over the call symbol, sank slowly.

‘I love you.’

Clarice’s face shot back up, eyes like saucers. Ardelia was laser-focused on her. The sunlight coming through the window was grey, clouds pregnant with precipitation, perhaps snow. But Ardelia, Ardelia seemed to exude a glow of her own, a warmth around her heart that lit her up from within, made her rich russet skin shine almost like copper. Perhaps the heart wasn’t the one glowing – at least, not on its own, because it was her brilliant mind Clarice loved best of all, the way she thought and reasoned and _understood_.

She understood.

‘I love you, too, darlin’.’

And then a kiss, soft lips meeting awkward dry ones, quickly moving together and against each other in raw, unfettered affection. Clarice wanted to feel Ardelia’s skin beneath her fingers, surged her hand forward – and the sudden pain in the back of her hand made her yelp into her lover’s mouth instead. She’d forgotten the IV drip. Of course.

‘Oh my God, are you okay?’ Ardelia chuckled, examining the needle. It remained firmly in place. Clarice snorted.

‘Yeah. That was pretty goddamn smooth, huh?’

‘Couldn’t’ve gone any other way, babe.’

Clarice laughed, an almost cackle she’d be mortified to share with anyone else. Her gaze settled on the phone once more. She glanced at Ardelia, unlocked it, and pressed the green phone icon.

Now, Gene stood before her, in a rumpled brown suit and a cartoon-print tie. She’d seen that outfit hundreds of times, in church and at her graduations. The tie was the gift she’d given him the first Christmas they spent together, using saved up pocket money. It was almost old enough to buy booze.

‘I’m allowed to be pleased, ain’t I? Check it out.’ She showed Gene the badge. ‘What you think a’ that?’

‘Shiny.’ Clarice gave him a look. ‘Beg pardon. _Blindin’_.’

She rolled her eyes and put the badge back into her inside pocket, where it fit as snugly as if the pocket had been tailored especially. Ardelia had talked her into buying a new suit for the ceremony, arguing that she’d need formal attire anyway, so it wouldn’t be a waste of money and anyway she’d look hot. When Clarice saw herself in the shop mirror, dressed in all-black with a modern-fit wool suit, silk tie, and lacquered Oxfords, she had to admit that she did, in fact, look hot, and Ardelia made sure to let her know.

Gene was looking around the FBI grounds, towards the titanic main building.

‘Looks like a prison,’ he commented.

‘Makes sense.’

‘What’s it like inside?’

‘You’ll find out.’ Under her smart layers, Clarice tensed. ‘If you’re, uh, stayin’ for drinks.’

‘You kiddin’ me? You think I’d pass up free wine?’

She smiled. ‘Canapés, too.’

Gene whistled, hands in his pockets. Amidst the crowd of loved ones milling around, he didn’t stand out, but he didn’t fit in, either. He had the right exterior, but his manners were stiff, his countenance awkward. Though she sympathised, Clarice also felt a certain satisfaction seeing him squirm in her world.

The phone conversation hadn’t been very long. After two years of no words exchanged, uncle and niece spoke almost exclusively in monosyllabics, just enough to ascertain each other’s health statuses and extend the invitation to Quantico.

Slipping back into their old dynamic was comforting, but alien, too. The weight of their history hung like a mist, permeating every fibre, and Clarice didn’t think they’d ever quite dissipate it.

‘Reese!’

Clarice recognised Ardelia’s voice, turned to see her standing with a small group, waving. A younger man in a slim blue suit and cornrows Clarice knew to be her brother, and an exquisitely dressed older couple who could only be her parents. Clarice gulped and motioned for Gene to follow.

One of the final tests at the Academy was a sort of gauntlet. A blast of pepper spray to the eyes, followed by a physical struggle with an instructor during which the prospective Agent had to keep at least one eye open and wrestle a gun from their opponent’s hands. Clarice and Ardelia dreaded it all week, the pressure growing with every day that moved them closer to their appointed date.

As she and Gene went to meet the Mapps, Clarice felt the same sort of trepidation. But Ardelia and her family were smiling wide. So Clarice smiled too.

After all, once the ordeal was over and done with, once Clarice was allowed to crouch on the ground and pour milk into her burning eyes, even while her whole face was on fire – once she’d passed, she loved the satisfaction of that rush of adrenaline.

Ardelia went straight to Clarice’s side to link arms with her, careful to avoid the side where she’d been shot, which still bothered her if touched for too long. ‘Doesn’t she look handsome?’ Ardelia trilled, running her free hand over Clarice’s lapel. The nods all-around made Clarice blush, and she quickly spoke to distract from how red her cheeks were becoming. The younger man held out a hand, so she greeted him first.

‘Boone, right?’

He nodded. ‘Right. Congrats, Clarice.’

Her attention was on the parents, now. Mr Mapp was a broad, tall man with greying hair and a thick moustache set over pearly white teeth. The red flowery tie was a splash of colour on his dark, double-breasted pinstriped suit. Mrs Mapp was almost as tall as her husband, but thinner, clad in a pretty blue number accessorised with a translucent shawl, a slim gold necklace, and a white flower ornament clipped on the side of her straight bob cut. Meanwhile, Ardelia wore a gorgeous form-fitting black dress and jacket, the four-inch Valentino heels making taller than ever. Clarice felt like a veritable dwarf.

 ‘Mr Mapp, Mrs Mapp, how d’you do?’

‘Good to finally meet you, Clarice.’ Mr Mapp’s voice had a distinct southern twang, though Clarice couldn’t quite place it. He shook her hand with gusto. ‘Please, call me Gil.’

‘And I’m Bertha,’ said Mrs Mapp, ‘but my friends call me Birdie.’

‘On account of her marvellous voice,’ Gilbert added. Bertha tutted. ‘First thing that made me fall in love with her. She’ll have to show you.’

‘You’re talking nonsense,’ she replied, clearly chuffed.

‘Now, I insist. You haven’t really lived ‘til you’ve heard this woman sing.’

Ardelia rolled her eyes, no stranger to the routine. Clarice laughed.

‘Lookin’ forward to it, Birdie. Folks say when I sing’s like a cat bein’ skinned, pardon the expression.’

‘It’s one of the things they teach us here,’ Ardelia quipped. ‘Suitably morbid turns of phrase.’

Giddy as she was, Clarice had the good sense to avoid a joke about ‘cunning linguists.’ In her peripheral vision, she could see Gene hovering a few feet away. She beckoned him over, not without some anxiety. He thrust his hand out to the Mapp patriarch without giving Clarice a chance to introduce him.

‘Gene Corcoran. Clarice’s uncle.’

Gilbert shook his hand politely. ‘Nice to meet you, Gene. I’ve got to say, you two are the spitting image of each other.  For a second, I thought you were Clarice’s father.’

‘Jus’ about,’ Clarice piped up, avoiding Gene’s eyes. She didn’t want to see a sneer, a bad reaction. Gene further greeted Bertha and Boone, then paused, eyeing up Ardelia, making up his mind. The pressure inside Clarice’s chest was unbearable.

‘This, uh… this’s Ardelia,’ she said, squeezing Ardelia’s hand between her arm and her chest. Ardelia returned the gesture, tapping her fingertips against Clarice’s bicep, reassuring her of her presence. ‘My… girlfriend.’

The ensuing silence stretched like a rubber band. He couldn’t storm off, couldn’t make a scene. Not here, not now.

Could he?

Swamped by an upsurge of fear, Clarice started to turn to Gene, to diffuse the tension – but he stood firm, in his rumpled suit and loud tie, and he had a hand pointed at Ardelia, calloused fingers apart, thumb to the sky.

‘Pleased t’meet you, Ardelia.’

Ardelia blinked. Smiled. Shook. ‘Same to you, Gene!’

Clarice’s inflated heart popped in that moment, and she felt light, light, _light_ , lifted by the winter wind and walking on clouds.

The group only had time to exchange a few more words before being called for refreshments, but it was enough for the older men to find a common interest in football, a discussion Ardelia joined avidly while Bertha and Boone watched with amusement and spoke amongst themselves. Gene dropped back while Ardelia and Gilbert argued over a particular game’s strategy, keeping pace with Clarice. He elbowed her good arm.

‘Spitfire, huh?’ he murmured, watching father and daughter refuse to concede the argument to the other.

‘Family a’ lawyers. ‘s in the blood. She’ll argue her way in ‘n outta anythin’. So darn reasonable it’ll drive you crazy.’

‘Ya’ll stayin’… together, after this?’ Gene gestured at the tall building towering over them.

‘Yeah. That’s the plan, anyway. People get sent all over. But after the Buffalo Bill thing, I don’t think Mr Crawford’ll begrudge me my request to stick around ‘n not be separated.’

When he first got wind of what had happened in Summersville, he was furious. The way Ardelia told it, he’d shouted down the phone – ‘is she alive? Is she _safe_?!’ – eyes bulging, spittle flying, madder than hell and twice as nasty. But by the time Clarice was awake, bandaged, rehydrated and reblooded, there wasn’t much of that anger left. Jack scolded her, which wasn’t surprising – she’d disobeyed his instructions and got herself in an almost fatal situation – but more than irritation, relief came off him like steam. And when Freddie showed up for an exclusive interview, Jack personally drove her off, escorting her to the front door of the hospital. Clarice texted Lounds later, promising a detailed account of the confrontation in Jame Gumb’s basement, perhaps even his address, if she agreed to wait until the forensic research was done before breaking in for her customary photoshoot.

Gene coughed, awkward. ‘I guess we got a lot to talk about, huh, Reese’s Pieces?’

‘Yeah, Uncle Gene.’

‘Y’can call me Gene now. Y’old enough.’

‘I like “Uncle Gene.”’

A noise came out of him, a snort, though she didn’t know if it was a laugh or a sob.

‘You’ve changed a lot,’ he said. ‘Barely recognise the lil’ girl showed up at the farm with a bag as big as her.’

‘Can handle a gun better now.’

He did laugh this time, a short exhale.

‘Yeah. You’ve changed. An’ I’ve changed, too. An’ I’m…’

The “sorry” hung between them, puny and enormous all at once. But it didn’t escape. Maybe because he hadn’t changed enough. Maybe because it wasn’t the right time. And in the past, maybe Clarice would have counted herself fortunate for even the unspoken, might have completed the thought for him. Instead, she clapped him on the back, kept her hand there.

‘Y’think… things can ever be – fixed?’ Gene asked. His voice seemed thick.

A pause.

‘I don’t know. I ain’t used to hypotheticals.’

He nodded. Clarice wanted to turn him around, see his face and read his thoughts. She wanted him to acknowledge the past, apologise, show her that he saw what he’d done. But neither of them did anything.

Gene cleared his throat. ‘You’re tough. That’s good. Like y’Daddy.’ Another pang in Clarice’s heart, veins full of blades. ‘He’d be damn proud a’ you. So would she. You keep that in mind.’

With that, Gene stepped away from her grasp, and followed the crowd into the reception hall.

Not that long ago, she’d be fighting back tears. She’d be ecstatic, confused, angry, all that and more jumbled up and swirled and poured out of tired eyes. And she did feel that way. All those ways. She didn’t know if she could forgive him, or even if she should, though she hoped she would. But she wouldn’t waste any more tears on men like this.

Her phone rumbled in her pocket.

She knew right away who it was.

The news of Will and Hannibal’s escape wasn’t the first thing Ardelia told Clarice after she came to in the hospital, but it was a close second. The details were still shrouded in mystery, but Senator Martin’s extra-judicial efforts to find her daughter using slapdash police surveillance, private security companies, and taxpayer dollars – all were under extreme scrutiny, the incompetent approach largely being blamed for the escape and related deaths. The goodwill generated by Catherine’s safe return could only go so far.

Clarice was frustrated by the loss of these men, apprehensive about what further mayhem they could cause. The logical part of her brain throbbed with alarm at her own safety, Ardelia’s. She’d tried to trick Hannibal, after all, hadn’t shied away from outright insults. There was a chance they were planning a fate for her similar to Bedelia du Maurier’s.

Yes, there was a chance.

But somehow, she believed she was safe.

Barney supported this gut feeling. He waited outside the hospital doors until he saw Ardelia heading in for her visit. A few minutes later, he was at Clarice’s bedside, placing a small but pretty bouquet on the table. He couldn’t stay long, but he wanted to congratulate her and say goodbye before he left for his new job in Connecticut.

‘You’re leavin’ Baltimore State?’ Clarice asked, genuinely surprised. Barney nodded.

‘This new position’s a step up. Can’t see my career going anywhere at the BSHCI. I can tell Pritchard’s got a bone to pick with me.’ He shrugged. ‘Pretty sure it’s somethin’ to do with Lecter. Guess he thinks sociopathy’s catching.’

‘Dunno how long he’ll keep _his_ job,’ Clarice replied lightly. ‘Senator Martin’s investigation’s makin’ him look pretty bad, huh? Takin’ a bribe for an inmate…’

Barney smiled. ‘Rumour has it he’s planning on getting out of the country altogether. He’s scared Lecter’ll come for him. Which isn’t unreasonable.’

Clarice smiled back, a touch nervously. Ardelia noticed. With affected casualness, she spoke to Barney: ‘IS that something you’re worried about, too?’

To the women’s surprise, his response was immediate: ‘Nah. Dr Lecter likes me. He’s got no cause to punish me.’

‘But you lied to him, ‘bout your family. I think he knows that. An’ he don’t like liars.’

‘I think he knows, too,’ Barney said, calmly. ‘He’s too smart not to’ve noticed. I’m sure I’ve slipped up here and there, said something that didn’t line up. I’ve never been a great liar. But he didn’t try to make me stop. They weren’t lies that challenged him, they were stories. Like playing pretend. I was pretty much his only window to the real world, and my fake life was like a soap opera. A game. Maybe even fodder for his psychiatrist’s training. I don’t think he’s gonna be angry about years of entertainment.’

He stopped to look at Clarice for a moment.

‘And he’s not gonna be angry about your lies, either, because they let him find out more about you.’

‘An’ they helped him escape,’ she grumbled. ‘If I hadn’t promised that prison transfer, Senator Martin wouldn’t a’ had to match the offer.’

‘You can’t think like that. If you do, it’s everybody’s fault. It’s your boss’s fault for sending you out there. It’s Jame Gumb’s fault for being hard to catch. Dr Lecter chose to escape and I think he would’ve done it sooner or later, even if he’d stayed in the BSHCI.’

‘He’s slippery.’

‘Like an eel.’ Barney grinned. ‘Twice as slimy, twice as bitey.’

Clarice laughed.

Now, staring at the unknown, masked number on her phone, she had little to laugh about.

She could ignore it. Hannibal would be unlikely to try contacting her again. But what if he did? Later, when she didn’t expect it. Maybe in person. When Ardelia was there. At least now, she was alone.

And she really wanted to know what this was about.

So, seconds before it went to voicemail, she answered.

‘Yeah?’

‘Hello, Clarice.’

Those smoky, foreign tones. She knew it was coming, but her hand still twitched, her trigger finger itched. She glanced around, like in a movie, alert for eavesdroppers, chastised herself for her paranoia.

‘That’s Special Agent Starling t’you,’ she said. Hannibal chuckled into her ear. His voice had never sounded so close, so intimate. Her stomach felt like a wrung-out washcloth.

‘Of course. That’s the reason for the call. Congratulations.’

Clarice frowned. ‘You’re callin’ to give me kudos on graduatin’?’

‘Amongst other things. We read the details of your encounter with Mr Gumb, in Tattlecrime. Very impressive.’

‘No comment. Was jus’ a fucked-up encounter with a sick man.’

‘How did you find it?’

‘What’re you –‘

‘Killing.’

The word echoed, bounced off the walls of her mind. Her next breath didn’t taste like grass and mixed perfumes and impending rain, but of artificial heat and preservatives and fresh human leather. She snorted.

‘You tryin’ to _recruit_ me, sir?’

‘It’s an innocent question, Agent Starling. You have a need to be a hero. That isn’t incompatible with an… enlightened view of death.’

She’d replayed the events of that night over and over, backwards and forwards. The resistance of his eyes, mounting pressure, the sudden give with a squelch and a pop. She recalled the smells, the sounds – though she couldn’t possibly have heard in such detail, not with her temporary deafness, it was her mind filling in the blanks and embroidering on memory. But the tactile feeling, that was unquestionably real. It came to mind involuntarily whenever she manipulated soft bread, bit into a grape, broke the skin of a dessert with her spoon. It made her palms sweat.

It was true she loved a good fight. More so in her youth, when she had plenty of anger to work out. She never liked the _reasons_ for fights, jealousy and bigotry and plain dealing with assholes, but she revelled in the sweat glazing her body, the euphoria of grinning through blood-stained teeth and crunching a nose back into place.

But she liked fair fights.

That didn’t mean playing by Queensberry rules. Clarice was as partial as anyone to using her feet and teeth and whatever gave her leverage, but only to level the playing field. To nullify the hindrance of her small stature and lean musculature, when the occasion called instead for a bulky frame and bulging biceps, or if she needed a boost when fighting more than one opponent.

She wanted to make things right.

And killing someone? Even someone like Jame Gumb? It didn’t feel honourable, or empowering. It was a grim necessity. Murder enriched the inner lives of people like Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, intensified the world so it became brighter and beautiful – even if, for Will, it had taken longer to accept. Meanwhile, it left Clarice cold.

‘Will and I have, for a while now, kept our targets confined to the dregs of society –‘

‘Yeah. Graham told me. Took some convincin’ to get you used to th’idea, I’m guessin’.’

‘We compromised,’ he said, philosophically. ‘It’s the cornerstone of diplomacy.’

‘Always did hear diplomacy described as the language a’ the devil.’

A sound at the other end of the line that could have been a laugh. The grainy connection made it hard to tell.

‘It seems you’re not that amenable to the idea of an awakening.’

‘Astute. Tried the sample. Didn’t like it.’

‘Perhaps in better circumstances…’

‘Dr Lecter, with all due respect – y’say y’want people t’be true to themselves, but it feels an awful lot like you’re jus’ tryin’ t’make me be true to you.’ He kept listening. Clarice continued: ‘Maybe I’ll change my mind. In this line a’ work, I feel like my first time killin’ might not be my last. Maybe I’ll give y’a call if I “see the light.” But if I were you, I wouldn’t wait up.’

That same almost-laugh. It could be a glitch. A ghost in the machine.

‘Very well. Agent Starling. You’ve spoken your piece. I can only respect it.’

‘That all, sir?’

‘One moment.’

Crunching paper, a cheap phone being passed around.

‘Hi, Clarice.’

Hannibal had sounded the same, just rough from the long-distance transmission. Will’s voice was a real surprised. The timbre was the same, the pitch – but instead of the slow, tired tone she’d witnessed in Marion, he sounded youthful. Clear.

Elevated.

‘Mr Graham.’

‘Please, Mr Graham’s my father.’

Clarice didn’t smile, but she softened. ‘Will.’

‘It’s been a while since we talked.’

‘Yes.’

‘Sometimes, I wish we’d had more chances.’

Although she agreed, there was no way Clarice could say so. So instead, she asked: ‘There somethin’ y’wanna tell me, Will?’

‘Well, there’s the usual congratulations. Hope the, ah, the mace didn’t treat you too badly. I guess you’ve had worse pain. I’d like to ask you a favour.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘A favour?’

‘It shouldn’t be too much skin off your back.’ He soldiered on before she could ask if that was supposed to be a joke. ‘You’re in contact with Alana?’

Clarice received a very pretty bouquet from the Verger-Blooms, a striking arrangement of white carnations, bordered by sharp-tongued, arterial cardinal flowers and bright yellow mulleins, and a bedding of sage that she smelled rather than saw. Plants signifying healing. The bouquet came with a card wishing her well. With the prison break, their Christmas extravaganza was cancelled in favour of a more secure, private do, but Alana made a point of phoning Clarice to tell her she was welcome back anytime and was already on the guest list for their next event. They wouldn’t run away. Not this time.

‘Yeah, I can talk t’her. Why?’

 ‘Tell her that she and Margo shouldn’t worry. They’re free to stay or travel or do whatever they want. I want her to be happy. There’s no time to waste on old grievances.’

‘What ‘bout Hannibal? How’s he feel ‘bout it?’

Clarice heard a laugh in the background, Hannibal’s reaction to her use of his given name. She’d been thinking about him on a first-name basis for a while. Less friendship, more a sense of equality. When did that start? When Jame fell by her hand?

‘Hannibal wants what I want,’ Will said.

Clarice wasn’t so sure.

‘A’ight. I’ll pass it on. Could do with another of Ms Bloom’s beers, anyhow. That it? Ya’ll got more messages for me to deliver? ‘Cause I’ve got all this time on my hands…’

‘Just one more, for you. Don’t worry, either. If you leave us be, we’ll stay far away.’

‘How d’you know I ain’t recordin’ this an’ tracin’ you right now?’ she said, fast and steady, peering at the open door of the reception hall. Some people were still outside, taking pictures, finishing their cigarettes. Her absence would be noticed.

‘Because we both know that’s not how that works.’

‘We could follow the phone towers. Piece a’ cake.’

‘You wouldn’t get far. We’re a long way from Kansas.’

Clarice smirked. ‘Well, you _are_ travellin’ with your Toto.’

Will chortled, surprised – it was an odd noise, something she felt she shouldn’t be hearing. He drew back from the telephone: ‘Wow, she _really_ doesn’t like you.’ Hannibal’s muffled response. ‘It’s usually the other way round.’ Then, he was against her ear again, so close she felt his breath should be tickling her face. ‘We’re extending a truce, at least for today. You’re free to look for us afterwards. It’s your job. But it’s probably best for all of us if you pass the buck to someone else. We don’t want to have to find you.’

The rhythmic chorus of the dial tone.

Clarice lowered the phone, watched herself in its black mirror. A truce, huh? No dice. Will had to know as much. He was former FBI. If she was assigned to their case, she’d follow it for all she was worth. Though as it stood, they were more under Interpol jurisdiction than –

‘Clarice?’

Jack’s booming voice never failed to grab her attention, and with its current cheerful edge, it was guaranteed to make her smile. He stood at the door to the party, just beyond the threshold, a tall champagne flute in one hand. Clarice put the phone away, nestled between her chest and her shiny new badge, and quickly walked over. Jack met her halfway and accompanied her back inside. He was dapper, as usual, in shades of grey-blue and muted purple.

‘Yes sir, Mr Crawford.’

‘We’re all wondering where you’ve been. You know you’re the star of the party. You can’t keep the people waiting.’

‘Hardly a star, sir,’ Clarice protested, flushing with embarrassed pleasure nonetheless.

After thoroughly berating her for risking her life “like a damn fool,” he’d treated her so nicely it made her head spin. Not that he was usually _un_ kind, but he had high standards and it was easy to confuse his single-minded pursuit of justice with malice or a lack of empathy. Though he was angry about Will and Hannibal’s escape, he chose to focus positive attention on this rookie agent who’d gone above and beyond the call of duty, joking that the bullet wound on her arm was her first merit badge.

Jack patted her on the back to guide her inside, and an uncomfortable itch spread out from his palm over her body. Will said she and Alana were safe, but what about her boss? They wouldn’t risk coming back stateside just to attract attention to themselves by murdering such a high-profile Agent. She glanced at Jack, who spoke in a proud, tired tone about some anecdote from his latest interview. He was old. There was no getting around that. He’d have to be forced into retirement, but he’d go eventually. There was no guarantee that, a few years after he’d hung up his spurs and faded into comfortable obscurity, he wouldn’t be found dead in some elaborate tableau, maybe during a holiday abroad. Severed head on a silver platter, John the Baptist.

‘Mr Crawford,’ Clarice said. ‘Jack.’

‘Yeah?’

He was looking at her now. Happy. If he found out later she hadn’t told him about the phone call, there’d be hell to pay. But there was a part of her, a little buried part, that didn’t _want_ to tell. That wanted these broken bastards to get their happy ending. Clarice would never admit to it, but it was there. Some misplaced kinship. Some irrational fondness.

Jack watched her, uncertainty beginning to show.

‘I jus’ wanted to say… thanks for believin’ in me, sir. I owe you a lot, an’ I look forward to workin’ with you for a long time.’

‘You won’t see the back of me for a while yet, Special Agent Starling,’ Jack replied, with a wink. He crossed through the open door, through which the excited sounds of hundreds of young agents and their nearest and dearest could be heard. ‘Come on in. The champagne isn’t actually all that bad, this year.’

Clarice smiled, and followed her boss inside.

 

\---

 

Sweat dripped down Will’s chest, rivulets descending the peaks of his ribcage into the valley of his concave stomach. It was unseasonably hot for January, and though he’d been free for a few months already, it was taking infuriatingly long for his mind and body to recover from a near-decade of carceral abuse. The worst part came right after the escape, while they waited for transit from Mexico and Will had to endure the cumulative effects of withdrawal from a laundry list of medications. Lying in a dark hotel room while his brain throbbed against its bone cage, his heart’s erratic beating making him twitch and moan and fear a pathetic death, every cord of muscle raw with electric pain, organs generating static as they rubbed together inside his body like so many balloons filled to bursting.

Those weren’t his proudest weeks. He was just glad for Hannibal’s patience.

Navigating an escape would have been far easier without the albatross of Will’s debilitation, particularly in this crucial initial period. He once suggested Hannibal go on while he detoxed alone, arranging to meet later, but Hannibal rejected the idea almost with offence. They hadn’t left each other’s side since their reunion. The prospect of renewed separation, however brief, was out of the question.

So they waited for the pharmaceuticals to leave Will’s body. He had no desire to eat, but Hannibal set about crafting meals to bring him back to health. Simple foods, mainly liquid, easy to ingest and keep down, still torture leaking down his unwilling throat. But, slowly, he recovered. Day after day, his strength returned, his mind cleared, and though he remained skinnier than preferable, though he was a far cry from the health and stamina he once displayed, the Will lying on his back in this rented Indonesian apartment was almost back to his former splendour.

He sighed, wiped moisture off his brow before it could drip into his eyes. The weather had the oppressive quality of Louisiana summers. The monsoon hadn’t yet begun in earnest, but Padang was forever cloaked in a sultriness that made him long for a tall glass of chilled sweet tea. He smiled. Not even the best manners had obscured Hannibal’s distaste for the sugary concoction, though he’d dutifully finished his portion the one time Will offered him some. After Will had tried and enjoyed _kvass_ – the fermented rye bread drink popular in Hannibal’s homeland – it was only fair Hannibal return the courtesy.

A crunch from the balcony called Will’s attention, and he shimmied up the double bed to sit against the pillows. Beyond the open glass doors, framed by a beautifully carved wooden border and colourful opaque curtains, Hannibal stood outside in a wave-patterned batik robe, holding the broken remains of a cheap cell phone.

‘Very “drug kingpin” of you.’

Hannibal turned to face him. ‘You’re aware of my penchant for the dramatic.’

‘I certainly am,’ Will said, fondly.

He watched Hannibal toss the broken device into the dark street below, where it landed with a barely audible clatter. Padang wasn’t a small city, but the streets were quiet enough this time of night. Illuminated by the moonlight and the weak lamp on the bedside table, Hannibal appeared spectral in a way that marred Will’s comfort, as though his lover were a mere apparition the likes of which he’d witnessed often in confinement.

With a flick of his chin and a quick pat of the mussed bedsheets, he spoke with affected nonchalance: ‘Come back inside. You’re gonna let the bugs in.’

Hannibal closed the doors and padded over to the bed. The sensation of the mattress dipping under his weight was a relief, as was the warmth and pressure of his bulk over Will’s. Hannibal settled over his body, supporting himself on his elbows, gazing down with the tender look Will had missed for so many years. Hannibal’s usually carefully coiffed hair hung down in a fluffy fringe, dishevelled from his most recent attempt at staving off the heat with a shower. Running his fingers through the soft locks, Will’s heart hammered like a virgin’s.

‘Do you think she will try to find us?’ Hannibal murmured, ghosting fingertips over the scar on Will’s throat.

‘I think she’ll _want_ to. Maybe not now, but…’ he sighed, angled his face to expose more of his neck. ‘It’s in her nature. And she’s good. Wily. With a couple years on the job, she might have a pretty good chance.’

‘Would be a pity.’

‘Mmh. I think Jack’ll keep her off the case. He knows better. But after he’s gone… I’d rather we didn’t kill her. If we can avoid it. We owe her.’

‘We’ll have to wait and see.’ He pressed a kiss to Will’s taut skin, lingered to whisper in his ear: ‘If needs must, we can make her death beautiful.’

‘How would we do it?’

‘Specifics depend on the location,’ each word was the hot exhale of a beast, the snort of a black stallion that had Will creep up Hannibal’s arms to knead rugged shoulders through flimsy cloth, ‘but as for a theme… starlings look black when seen from a distance, but up close, their feathers shine with iridescent violets and emeralds. We would bring her colours out, all the hues of the complex human form, scarlets and champagnes and lavenders.’

‘Yes,’ Will sighed. ‘Can you imagine how it felt? When she took down Jame Gumb? That – that sudden _give_ at the back of the eyes? What a spectacular first time.’

‘It’s been a while since we last burst somebody’s eyes,’ Hannibal whispered, closing his eyes while Will rained kisses on his head, the side of his face. ‘Perhaps next time a man ogles, offends with his gaze. A suitable punishment.’

‘Maybe even better if we let him live.’

‘If he seems unfit for consumption.’ A nibble at Will’s collarbone.

‘Hmm… naturally.’

With tremulous excitement, Will parted Hannibal’s robe to allow the complementary divots and hills of their bodies to touch directly, salivating at Hannibal’s quiet gasp.

Though both ached for it, Will’s fragile state had precluded true intimacy at first, and it wasn’t until a month after leaving American soil that they were able to go beyond tantalising caresses and ticklish kisses. In a Zurich high-rise, Will was incandescent as he pushed into the ecstatic familiarity of Hannibal’s body, which held him within and without so tightly it might bruise. Buried to the hilt, listening to a cracked-voice liturgy of English and Lithuanian, every inch of him near overload with desire after so long without this communion – Will knew he wouldn’t survive a second stint behind bars, because he’d much sooner die than be deprived of this again. And he knew, in embraces and scratches and saliva, that Hannibal’s thoughts were the same.

And although it was Will who came inside Hannibal, clasping the other’s throat just shy of fatality, thrusting hard until he climaxed with dizzying force, the truth is that he felt Hannibal’s love within himself just as vividly, shot scalding from passionate eyes into Will’s own, down his throat, a jet discharging pearlescent inside his heart.

He wanted to feel that again. Needed it.

In perfect synchronicity, they worked their mouths together and clung entwined like mating snakes, barely separating to breathe, surviving off dwindling oxygen traded back and forth. Fingertips and open palms turned to nails and grasped flesh, the hot evening air filled with moaning and growling as their coupling became a frenzy of lust and violence. So much time to make up for. Will wanted to tear holes in him and fuck him everywhere. He wanted to taste his blood. He –

The loud bump against the inside of the glass doors made them spring apart, instantly focused on the threat even as their minds struggled to shift gear.

Another bump, quieter, but no movement. After a quick glance, Hannibal walked over and pulled back the curtain.

A small, pale pink flower was perched on the door handle, standing perfectly still and staring with compound raspberry eyes at the two giants keeping her prisoner. The orchid mantis was still a juvenile, her camouflage near-flawless, but she was more than big enough to make some noise trying to escape. Big enough to startle two of the most wanted men in the world.

Will slapped his forehead with an exasperated, breathy laugh. ‘ _God_. I told you you were gonna let bugs in.’

‘You’ve chosen your moment poorly,’ Hannibal said to the insect, extending an elegant finger for her to inspect. ‘It’s rather rude to interrupt.’

Threatened, the mantis raised her twin scythes, abdomen curled toward the plaster heavens. But Hannibal held firm, statuesque in his nakedness, a figure to rival the frozen heroes of Ancient Rome even in his advancing years. Not that time mattered. They would live forever.

The juvenile’s curiosity showed in her antennae, arms lowering with each inquisitive quiver, until she stretched out one of her many dainty feet and moved to stand in the cupped palm of Hannibal’s hand, where she promptly spread her wings in a pretty display.

‘I forgot they’re a native species,’ remarked Will.

‘Can see why Jame Gumb took a liking to them,’ Hannibal replied, in a low voice that was less likely to scare the animal. ‘As soon as I showed him the illustration in Poulton’s _Colours of Animals_ , he was smitten. Even more once I brought the full colour photograph.’

‘Sounds like you laboured the point.’

‘We had only three meetings,’ Hannibal said, almost apologetically, ‘it was inelegant, but so was he. And I did see such a spark of possibility. I did what I could.’

‘You can count persuasion among your skills. But I’m sure you knew that already.’

The look Hannibal gave him was fast, just a glance from the mantis and then right back down, but the flutter of his eyelids sent a butterfly kiss that made the chambers of Will’s heart feel far too small. His gaze settled on the critter held in Hannibal’s loose grip. The rich green midrib stretching down the length of his forearm fractured into dozens of leafy veins, and Will had an irrational desire to see the insect bite down and release a translucent stream of chlorophyll from that strong artist’s wrist. Hannibal’s fingers twitched, threatened to clamp down and snuff out a life, and Will’s own fist gripped the soft sheets beneath.

With care, Hannibal cracked open the door with his free hand and released the living orchid back into the night. Will’s hold on the covers remained. Hannibal paused for a moment to gaze at the city, at the curved, sharply pointed roofs capping temples and homes alike. He delicately shut the door, and turned back, his arousal dampened but his teeth gleaming wet in the soft bedroom light.

‘Do you think you’re ready?’

Will relaxed. He ran a hand over his leg, brushing the dark hairs and feeling the regenerating muscle. It had been years. He shifted his weight, bounding up from the bed, and closed the distance to take hold of Hannibal’s hands.

‘Let’s go hunting,’ Will said, smiling determinedly.

Hannibal lifted their joined hands, kissed Will’s fingers, and smiled back.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading what turned out to be like, a novella? It's as long as The Scarlet Letter... but I hope you enjoyed it! It's a paltry replacement for a fourth season, but hopefully I managed to convey the spirit of the series and translate The Silence of the Lambs into its format with some success. I hope I did Clarice justice. She's a great character and, though I changed a lot of her backstory, I hope I captured some of what made her so good in the original and Jodie Foster's portrayal. I also hope I did a good job of expanding on some of the themes I feel the series could have pushed harder - especially gay sensibilities, experience, and identity. I set out to touch on misogyny as well, particularly Hannibal's own, but I think I did less well on that front. Not being American, I relied heavily on research, especially for my West Virginia details, and I really hope I didn't write anything offensive or blatantly incorrect!
> 
> You might have wondered what the chapter titles were about - I wanted to follow the series' custom of naming the episodes after a culture's dishes, so I went with Indonesian food to tie in with the orchid mantis and the final bit of the story. Indonesian food is bomb, by the way, if you haven't tried it you definitely should. Keep me in your thoughts when you do...
> 
> In closing, you can find my other Hannibal fanfic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7959235/chapters/18203212), and you can say hi on Tumblr [here](http://elfgrandfather.tumblr.com). I have some ideas for short pieces and for another longish fic, a Will/Hannibal story set during the Cold War. It'd be a lot shorter than this, so hopefully I can formulate and write it sooner rather than later. Stay tuned... (?)


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